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TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


OF 

THE  IRISH  PEASANTRY 


Volume  Three 


<S)1F 


77?/d£/rPo/amer 

Ih//// 


P7Y/i  e/c7m^s7i/ 
P/u\z,  Up/^/itson 
lee  anc/ot/zens 


Boston  college  library 
„,u. 


CELTIC  eOITIOK 


which  one  thousand  numbered 
and  registered  copies  have  been 

printed 


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'Printed  by 

'ITHE  COLOtKI  AL  'PRESS 
C.  H.  Simonds  & Co.,  Boston,  U.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


The  Donagh  or,  the  Horse-Stealers  ...  1 

Phil  Purcell  the  Pig  Driver 46 

Geography  of  an  Irish  Oath 88 

The  Lianhan  Shee 244 

Going  to  Maynooth 288 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 

“ Is  it  thrachery  you  hint  at?  ” (See  page  12) 

Frontispiece 

Giving  the  Pig  a Warm  Reception 55 

Clearing  the  Ship 84* 

The  Salmon  Leap,  Leixlip  .......  150 

Tramore  Strand 220 

Denis  promoted  to  the  Dignity  of  a Horse  . . .318 

Eagle’s  Nest,  Killarney 420 


IRELAND 

TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


THE  DONAGH 

OR,  THE  HORSE-STEAI.ERS 

Carnmore,  one  of  those  small  villages  that  are 
to  be  found  in  the  outskirts  of  many  parishes  in 
Ireland,  whose  distinct  boundaries  are  lost  in 
the  contiguous  mountain-wastes,  was  situated 
at  the  foot  of  a deep  gorge,  or  pass  overhung 
by  two  bleak  hills,  from  the  naked  sides  of  which 
the  storm  swept  over  it,  without  discomposing 
the  peaceful  little  nook  of  cabins  that  stood  be- 
low. About  a furlong  farther  down  were  two 
or  three  farm-houses,  inhabited  by  a family 
named  Cassidy,  men  of  simple,  inoffensive  man- 
ners, and  considerable  wealth.  They  were, 
however,  acute  and  wise  in  their  generation; 
intelligent  cattle-dealers,  on  whom  it  would  have 
been  a matter  of  some  difficulty  to  impose  an 
unsound  horse,  or  a cow  older  than  was  inti- 
mated by  her  horn-rings,  even  when  conscien- 
tiously dressed  up  for  sale  by  the  ingenious  aid 
of  the  file  or  burning-iron.  Between  their 
houses  and  the  hamlet  rose  a conical  pile  of 

iii-i  I 


2 


IRELAND 


rocks,  loosely  heaped  together,  from  which  the 
place  took  its  name  of  Carnmore. 

About  three  years  before  the  time  of  this 
story,  there  came  two  men  with  their  families 
to  reside  in  the  upj)er  village,  and  the  house 
which  they  chose  as  a residence  was  one  at  some 
distance  from  those  which  composed  the  little 
group  we  have  just  been  describing.  They  said 
their  name  was  Meehan,  although  the  general 
report  went,  that  this  was  not  true;  that  the 
name  was  an  assumed  one,  and  that  some  dark 
mystery,  which  none  could  penetrate,  shrouded 
their  history  and  character.  They  were  cer- 
tainly remarkable  men.  The  elder,  named  An- 
thony, was  a dark,  black-browed  person,  stern 
in  his  manner,  and  atrociously  cruel  in  his  dis- 
position. His  form  was  Herculean,  his  bones 
strong  and  hard  as  iron,  and  his  sinews  stood 
out  in  undeniable  evidence  of  a life  hitherto 
spent  in  severe  toil  and  exertion,  to  bear  which 
he  appeared  to  an  amazing  degree  capable. 
His  brother  Denis  was  a small  man,  less  savage 
and  daring  in  his  character,  and  consequently 
more  vacillating  and  cautious  than  Anthony; 
for  the  points  in  which  he  resembled  him  were 
superinduced  upon  his  natural  disposition  by 
the  close  connexion  that  subsisted  between 
them,  and  by  the  identity  of  their  former  pur- 
suits in  life,  which,  beyond  doubt,  had  been  such 
as  could  not  bear  investigation. 

The  old  proverb  of  “ birds  of  a feather  flock 
together,”  is  certainly  a true  one,  and  in  this 
case  it  was  once  more  verified.  Before  the  ar- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


3 


rival  of  these  men  in  the  village,  there  had  been 
two  or  three  bad  characters  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, whose  delinquencies  were  pretty  well 
known.  With  these  persons  the  strangers,  by 
that  sympathy  which  assimilates  with  congenial 
good  or  evil,  soon  became  acquainted;  and  al- 
though their  intimacy  was  as  secret  and  cautious 
as  possible,  still  it  had  been  observed,  and  was 
known;  for  they  had  frequently  been  seen  skulk- 
ing together  at  daybreak,  or  in  the  dusk  of 
evening. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  Meehan  and  his 
brother  did  not  mingle  much  in  the  society  of 
Carnmore.  In  fact,  the  villagers  and  they 
mutually  avoided  each  other.  A mere  return 
of  the  common  phrases  of  salutation  was  gener- 
ally the  most  that  passed  between  them:  they 
never  entered  into  that  familiarity  which  leads 
to  mutual  intercourse,  and  justifies  one  neigh- 
bour in  freely  entering  the  cabin  of  another, 
to  spend  a winter’s  night,  or  a summer’s  even- 
ing, in  amusing  conversation.  Few  had  ever 
been  in  the  house  of  the  Meehans  since  it  be- 
came theirs;  nor  were  the  means  of  their  sub- 
sistence known.  They  led  an  idle  life,  had  no 
scarcity  of  food,  were  decently  clothed,  and 
never  wanted  money;  circumstances  which  oc- 
casioned no  small  degree  of  conjecture  in  Carn- 
more and  its  vicinity. 

Some  said  they  lived  by  theft;  others  that  they 
were  coiners;  and  there  were  many  who  im- 
agined, from  the  diabolical  countenance  of  the 
elder  brother,  that  he  had  sold  himself  to  the 


4 


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devil,  who,  they  affirmed,  set  his  mark  upon  him, 
and  was  his  paymaster.  Upon  this  hypothesis 
several  were  ready  to  prove  that  he  had  neither 
breath  nor  shadow:  they  had  seen  him,  they  said, 
standing  under  a hedge-row  of  elder — that  un- 
holy tree  which  furnished  wood  for  the  cross, 
and  on  which  Judas  hanged  himself — yet,  al- 
though it  was  noon-day  in  the  month  of  July, 
his  person  threw  out  no  shadow.  Worthy  souls! 
because  the  man  stood  in  the  shade  at  the  time. 
But  with  these  simple  explanations  Supersti- 
tion had  nothing  to  do,  although  we  are  bound 
in  justice  to  the  reverend  old  lady  to  affirm  that 
she  was  kept  exceedingly  busy  in  Carnmore. 
If  a man  had  a sick  cow,  she  was  elf-shot;  if  his 
cliild  became  consumptive,  it  had  been  over- 
looked, or  received  a blast  from  the  fairies;  if 
the  hooping-cough  was  rife,  all  the  afflicted  chil- 
dren were  put  three  times  under  an  ass ; or  when 
they  happened  to  have  the  “ mumps,”  were  led, 
before  sunrise,  to  a south-running  stream,  with 
a halter  hanging  about  their  necks,  under  an 
obligation  of  silence  during  the  ceremony.  In 
short,  there  could  not  possibly  be  a more  super- 
stitious spot  than  that  which  these  men  of 
mystery  had  selected  for  their  residence.  An- 
other circumstance  which  caused  the  people  to 
look  upon  them  with  additional  dread,  was  their 
neglect  of  mass  on  Sundays  and  holidays, 
though  they  avowed  themselves  Roman  Cath- 
olics. They  did  not,  it  is  true,  join  in  the 
dances,  drinking-matches,  foot-ball,  and  other 
sports  with  which  the  Carnmore  folk  celebrated 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


the  Lord’s-day;  but  they  scrupled  not,  on  the 
other  hand,  to  mend  their  garden-ditch  or 
mould  a row  of  cabbages  on  the  Sabbath — a 
circumstance  for  which  two  or  three  of  the  Carn- 
more  boys  were,  one  Sunday  evening  when  tipsy, 
well-nigh  chastising  them.  Their  usual  man- 
ner, however,  of  spending  that  day  was  by 
sauntering  lazily  about  the  fields,  or  stretching 
themselves  supinely  on  the  sunny  side  of  the 
hedges,  their  arms  folded  on  their  bosoms,  and 
their  hats  lying  over  their  faces  to  keep  off  the 
sun. 

In  the  mean  time,  loss  of  property  was  be- 
coming quite  common  in  the  neighbourhood. 
Sheep  were  stolen  from  the  farmers,  and  cows 
and  horses  from  the  more  extensive  graziers  in 
the  parish.  The  complaints  against  the  authors 
of  these  depredations  were  loud  and  incessant: 
watches  were  set,  combinations  for  mutual 
security  formed,  and  subscriptions  to  a consider- 
able amount  entered  into,  with  a hope  of  being 
able,  by  the  temptation  of  a large  reward,  to 
work  upon  the  weakness  or  cupidity  of  some 
accomplice  to  betray  the  gang  of  villains  who  in- 
fested the  neighbourhood.  All,  however,  was  in 
vain ; every  week  brought  some  new  act  of  plun- 
der to  light,  perpetrated  upon  such  unsuspecting 
persons  as  had  hitherto  escaped  the  notice  of 
the  robbers;  but  no  trace  could  be  discovered  of 
the  perpetrators.  Although  theft  had  from  time 
to  time  been  committed  upon  a small  scale  be- 
fore the  arrival  of  the  Meehans  in  the  village, 
yet  it  was  undeniable  that  since  that  period  the 


6 


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instances  not  only  multiplied,  but  became  of  a 
more  daring  and  extensive  description.  They 
arose  in  a gradual  scale,  from  the  hen-roost  to 
the  stable ; and  with  such  ability  were  they 
planned  and  executed,  that  the  people,  who  in 
every  instance  identified  Meehan  and  his  brother 
with  them,  began  to  believe  and  hint  that,  in 
consequence  of  their  compact  with  the  devil, 
they  had  power  to  render  themselves  invisible. 
Common  Fame,  who  can  best  treat  such  sub- 
jects, took  up  this,  and  never  laid  it  aside  until, 
by  narrating  several  exploits  which  Meehan  the 
elder  was  said  to  have  performed  in  other  parts 
of  the  kingdom,  she  wound  it  up  by  roundly  in- 
forming the  Carnmorians,  that,  having  been  once 
taken  prisoner  for  murder,  he  was  caught  by 
the  leg,  when  half  through  a hedge,  but  that,  be- 
ing most  wickedly  determined  to  save  his  neck,  he 
left  the  leg  with  the  officer  who  took  him,  shout- 
ing out  that  it  was  a new  species  of  leg-bail; 
and  yet  he  moved  away  with  surprising  speed, 
upon  two  of  as  good  legs  as  any  man  in  his 
majesty’s  dominions  might  wish  to  walk  off 
upon,  from  the  insinuating  advances  of  a bailiff 
or  a constable! 

The  family  of  the  Meehans  consisted  of  their 
wives  and  three  children,  two  boys  and  a girl; 
the  former  were  the  offspring  of  the  younger 
brother,  and  the  latter  of  Anthony.  It  has 
been  observed,  with  truth  and  justice,  that  there 
is  no  man,  how  hardened  and  diabolical  soever 
in  his  natural  temper,  who  does  not  exhibit  to 
some  particular  object  a peculiar  species  of  af- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


7 


fection.  Such  a man  was  Anthony  Meehan. 
That  sullen  hatred  which  he  bore  to  human 
society,  and  that  inherent  depravity  of  heart 
which  left  the  trail  of  vice  and  crime  upon  his 
footsteps,  were  flung  off  his  character  when  he 
addressed  his  daughter  Anne.  To  him  her 
voice  was  like  music;  for  her  he  was  not  the 
reckless  villain,  treacherous  and  cruel,  which 
the  helpless  and  unsuspecting  found  him ; 
but  a parent  kind  and  indulgent  as  ever  pressed 
an  only  and  beloved  daughter  to  his  bosom. 
Anne  was  handsome:  had  she  been  born  and 
educated  in  an  elevated  rank  in  society,  she 
would  have  been  softened  by  the  polish  and 
luxury  of  life  into  perfect  beauty:  she  was,  how- 
ever, utterly  without  education.  As  Anne  ex- 
perienced from  her  father  no  unnatural  cruelty, 
no  harshness,  nor  even  indifference,  she  conse- 
quently loved  him  in  return ; for  she  knew 
that  tenderness  from  such  a man  was  a 
proof  of  parental  love  rarely  to  be  found  in 
life.  Perhaps  she  loved  not  her  father  the  less 
on  perceiving  that  he  was  proscribed  by  the 
world;  a circumstance  which  might  also  have 
enhanced  in  his  eyes  the  affection  she  bore  him. 
When  Meehan  came  to  Carnmore,  she  was  six- 
teen; and,  as  that  was  three  years  before  the  in- 
cident occurred  on  which  we  have  founded  this 
narrative,  the  reader  may  now  suppose  her  to 
be  about  nineteen;  an  interesting  country  girl 
as  to  person,  but  with  a mind  completely  neg- 
lected, yet  remarkable  for  an  uncommon  stock 
of  good-nature  and  credulity. 


8 


IRELAND 


About  the  hour  of  eleven  o’clock,  one  winter’s 
night  in  the  beginning  of  December,  Meehan 
and  his  brother  sat  moodily  at  their  hearth. 
The  fire  was  of  peat  wliich  had  recently  been 
put  dowm,  and,  from  between  the  turf,  the  ruddy 
blaze  was  shooting  out  in  those  little  tongues 
and  gusts  of  sober  light,  which  throw  around 
the  rural  hearth  one  of  those  charms  which  make 
up  the  felicity  of  domestic  life.  The  night  was 
stormy,  and  the  wind  moaned  and  howled  along 
the  dark  hills  beneath  which  the  cottage  stood. 
Every  object  in  the  house  was  shrouded  in  a 
mellow  shade,  which  afforded  to  the  eye  no  clear 
outline,  except  around  the  hearth  alone,  where 
the  light  brightened  into  a golden  hue,  giving 
the  idea  of  calmness  and  peace.  Anthony 
Meehan  sat  on  one  side  of  it,  and  his  daughter 
opposite  him,  knitting:  before  the  fire  sat  Denis, 
drawing  shapes  in  the  ashes  for  his  own  amuse- 
ment. 

“ Bless  me,”  said  he,  “ how  sthrange  it  is!  ” 

“What  is?”  inquired  Anthony,  in  his  deep 
and  grating  tones. 

“Why,  thin,  it  is  sthrange!”  continued  the 
other,  who,  despite  of  the  severity  of  his  brother, 
was  remarkably  superstitious — “ a coffin  I made 
in  the  ashes  three  times  runnin’!  Isn’t  it  very 
quare,  Anne?”  he  added,  addressing  the  niece. 

“ Sthrange  enough,  of  a sartinty,”  she  replied, 
being  unwilling  to  express  before  her  father  the 
alarm  which  the  incident,  slight  as  it  was,  created 
in  her  mind;  for  she,  like  her  uncle,  was  subject 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


9 


to  such  ridiculous  influences.  “ How  did  it 
happen,  uncle?  ” 

“ Why,  thin,  no  way  in  life,  Anne;  only,  as 
I was  thryin’  to  make  a shoe,  it  turned  out  a 
coffin  on  my  hands.  I thin  smoothed  the  ashes, 
and  began  agin,  an’  sorra  bit  of  it  but  was  a 
coffin  still.  Well,  says  I,  I’ll  give  you  another 
chance, — here  goes  once  more; — an’,  as  sure  as 
gun’s  iron,  it  was  a coffin  the  third  time. 
Heaven  be  about  us,  it’s  odd  enough!  ” 

“ It  would  be  little  matther  you  were  nailed 
down  in  a coffin,”  replied  Anthony,  fiercely; 
“ the  world  would  have  little  loss.  What  a 
pitiful  cowardly  rascal  you  are!  Afraid  o’  your 
own  shadow  afther  the  sun  goes  down,  except 
Fm  at  your  elbow!  Can’t  you  dhrive  all  them 
palavers  out  o’  your  head?  Didn’t  the  sargint 
tell  us,  an’  prove  to  us,  the  time  we  broke  the 
guard-house,  an’  took  Frinch  lave  o’  the  ridg- 
ment  for  good,  that  the  whole  o’  that,  an’  more 
along  wid  it,  is  all  priestcraft?  ” 

“I  remimber  he  did,  sure  enough:  I dunna 
where  the  same  sargint  is  now,  Tony?  About 
no  good,  any  way.  I’ll  be  bail.  Howsomever,  in 
regard  o’  that,  why  doesn’t  yourself  give  up 
fastin’  from  the  mate  of  a Friday?” 

“ Do  you  want  me  to  sthretch  you  on  the 
hearth?  ” replied  the  savage,  whilst  his  eyes 
kindled  into  fury,  and  his  grim  visage  darkened 
into  a Satanic  expression.  “ I’ll  tache  you  to 
be  puttin’  me  through  my  catechiz  about  atin’ 
mate,  I may  manage  that  as  I plase;  it  comes 


10 


IRELAND 


at  first-cost,  any  how:  but  no  cross-questions  to 
me  about  it,  if  you  regard  your  health!  ” 

“ I must  say  for  you,”  repHed  Denis,  re- 
proachfully, “ that  you’re  a good  warrant  to  put 
the  health  astray  upon  us  of  an  odd  start : we’re 
not  come  to  this  time  o’  day  widout  carryin’  some- 
thin’ to  remimber  you  by.  For  my  own  part, 
Tony,  I don’t  like  such  tokens;  an’  moreover, 
I wish  you  had  resaved  a thrifle  o’  lamin’,  es- 
pishily  in  the  writin’  line;  for  whenever  we  have 
any  difference,  you’re  so  ready  to  prove  your 
opinion  by  settin’  your  mark  upon  me,  that  I’d 
rather,  fifty  times  over,  you  could  write  it  with 
pen  an’  ink.” 

“ My  father  will  give  that  up,  uncle,”  said 
the  niece;  “ it’s  bad  for  any  body  to  be  fightin’, 
but  worst  of  all  for  brothers,  that  ought  to  live 
in  peace  and  kindness.  Won’t  you,  father?” 

“ Maybe  I will,  dear,  some  o’  these  days,  on 
your  account,  Anne;  but  you  must  get  this  crea- 
ture of  an  uncle  of  yours  to  let  me  alone,  an’ 
not  be  aggravatin’  me  with  his  folly.  As  for 
your  mother,  she’s  worse;  her  tongue’s  sharp 
enough  to  skin  a flint,  and  a batin’  a day  has 
little  effect  on  her.” 

Anne  sighed,  for  she  knew  how  low  an  ir- 
religious life,  and  the  infamous  society  with 
which,  as  her  father’s  wife,  her  mother  was  com- 
pelled to  mingle,  had  degraded  her. 

“ Well  but,  father,  you  don’t  set  her  a good 
example  yourself,”  said  Anne;  ‘'and  if  she 
scoulds  and  drinks  now,  you  know  she  was  a 
different  woman  when  you  got  her.  You  al- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


II 


low  this  yourself ; and  the  crathur,  the  dhrunkest 
time  she  is,  doesn’t  she  cry  bittherly,  remimberin’ 
what  she  has  been.  Instead  of  one  batin’  a day, 
father,  thry  no  batin’  a day,  an’  may  be  it  ’ill 
turn  out  betther,  than  thumpin’  an’  smashin’  her, 
as  you  do.” 

“ Why,  thin,  there’s  thruth  an’  sinse  in  what 
the  girl  says,  Tony,”  observed  Denis. 

“ Come,”  replied  Anthony,  “ whatever  she 
may  say.  I’ll  suffer  none  of  your  interference. 
Go  an’  get  us  the  black  bottle  from  the  place; 
it’ll  soon  be  time  to  move.  I hope  they  won’t 
stay  too  long.” 

Denis  obeyed  this  command  with  great  readi- 
ness, for  whiskey  in  some  degree  blunted  the 
fierce  passions  of  his  brother,  and  deadened  his 
cruelty;  or  rather  diverted  it  from  minor  objects 
to  those  which  occurred  in  the  lawless  perpetra- 
tion of  his  villany. 

The  bottle  was  got,  and  in  the  mean  time  the 
fire  blazed  up  brightly;  the  storm  without,  how- 
ever, did  not  abate,  nor  did  Meehan  and  his 
brother  wish  that  it  should.  As  the  elder  of  them 
took  the  glass  from  the  hands  of  the  other,  an  air 
of  savage  pleasure  blazed  in  his  eyes,  on  reflect- 
ing that  the  tempest  of  the  night  was  favourable 
to  the  execution  of  the  villanous  deed  on  which 
they  were  bent. 

“More  power  to  you!”  said  Anthony,  im- 
piously personifying  the  storm:  “sure  that’s 
one  proof  that  God  doesn’t  throuble  his  head 
about  what  we  do,  or  we  would  not  get  such  a 
murdherin’  fine  night  as  is  in  it,  any  how. 


12 


IRELAND 


That’s  it ! blow  an’  tundher  away,  an’  keep  your- 
self an’  us  as  black  as  hell,  sooner  than  we  should 
fail  in  what  we  intend!  Anne,  your  health, 
acushla! — Yours,  Dinny!  If  you  keep  your 
tongue  off  o’  me.  I’ll  neither  make  nor  meddle 
in  regard  o’  the  batin’  o’  you.” 

“ I hope  you’ll  stick  to  that,  any  how,”  replied 
Denis ; “ for  my  part  I’m  sick  and  sore  o’  you 
every  day  in  the  year.  Many  another  man 
would  put  salt  wather  between  himself  and 
yourself,  sooner  nor  become  a battin’-stone  for 
you,  as  I have  been.  Few  would  bear  it,  when 
they  could  mend  themselves.” 

“What’s  that  you  say?”  replied  Anthony, 
suddenly  laying  down  his  glass,  catching  his 
brother  by  the  collar,  and  looking  him  with  a 
murderous  scowl  in  the  face.  “Is  it  thrachery 
you  hint  at? — eh?  Sarpent,  is  it  thrachery  you 
mane?  ” and  as  he  spoke,  he  compressed  Denis’s 
neck  between  his  powerful  hands,  until  the  other 
was  black  in  the  face. 

Anne  flew  to  her  uncle’s  assistance,  and  with 
much  difficulty  succeeded  in  rescuing  him  from 
the  deadly  gripe  of  her  father,  who  exclaimed, 
as  he  loosed  his  hold,  “You  may  thank  the  girl, 
or  you’d  not  spake,  nor  dare  to  spake,  about 
crossin’  the  salt-wather,  or  lavin’  me  in  a desate- 
ful  way  agin.  If  I ever  suspect  that  a thought 
of  thrachery  comes  into  your  heart.  I’ll  do  for 
you ; and  you  may  carry  your  story  to  the  world 
I’ll  send  you  to.” 

“ Father  dear,  why  are  you  so  suspicious  of 
my  uncle?  ” said  Anne;  “ sure  he’s  a long  time 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


13 


livin’  ^vith  you,  an’  goin’  step  for  step  in  all  the 
danger  you  meet  with.  If  he  had  a mind  to 
turn  out  a Judas  agin  you,  he  might  a done  it 
long  agone ; not  to  mintion  the  throuble  it  would 
bring  on  his  own  head,  seein’  he’s  as  deep  in 
every  thing  as  you  are.” 

“ If  that’s  all  that’s  throubling  you,”  replied 
Denis,  trembling,  “ you  may  make  yourself  asy 
on  the  head  of  it;  but  well  I know  ’tisn’t  that 
that’s  on  your  mind;  ’tis  your  owm  conscience; 
but  sure  it’s  not  fair  nor  rasonable  for  you  to 
vent  your  evil  thoughts  on  me!  ” 

“ Well,  he  won’t,”  said  Anne,  ‘‘he’ll  quit  it; 
his  mind’s  throubled;  an’,  dear  knows,  it’s  no 
wondher  it  should.  Och,  I’d  give  the  world  ^\dde 
that  his  conscience  was  lightened  of  the  load 
that’s  upon  it ! My  mother’s  lameness  is 
notliin’;  but  the  child,  poor  thing!  An’  it  was 
only  widin  three  days  of  her  lyin’-in.  Och,  it 
was  a cruel  sthroke,  father!  An’  when  I seen 
its  little  innocent  face,  dead,  an’  me  widout  a 
brother,  I thought  my  heart  would  break, 
thinkin’  upon  who  did  it!”  The  tears  fell  in 
showers  from  her  eyes,  as  she  added,  “ Father, 
I don’t  want  to  vex  you;  but  I wish  you  to  feel 
sorrow  for  that  at  laste.  Oh,  if  you’d  bring  the 
priest,  an’  give  up  sich  courses,  father  dear,  how 
happy  we’d  be,  an’  how  happy  yourself ’ud  be!  ” 
Conscience  for  a moment  started  from  her 
sleep,  and  uttered  a cry  of  guilt  in  his  spirit:  his 
face  became  ghastly,  and  his  eyes  full  of  horror: 
his  lips  quivered,  and  he  was  about  to  upbraid 
his  daughter  with  more  harshness  than  usual. 


14 


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when  a low  whistle,  resembling  that  of  a curlew, 
was  heard  at  a chink  of  the  door.  In  a moment 
he  gulped  down  another  glass  of  spirits,  and  was 
on  his  feet:  ‘‘  Go,  Denis,  an’  get  the  arms,”  said 
he  to  his  brother,  “ while  I let  them  in.” 

On  opening  the  door,  three  men  entered,  hav- 
ing their  great-coats  muffled  about  them,  and 
their  hats  slouched.  One  of  them,  named 
Kenny,  was  a short  villain,  but  of  a thick-set, 
hairy  frame.  The  other  was  known  as  “ the  Big 
Mower,”  in  consequence  of  his  following  that 
employment  every  season,  and  of  his  great  skill 
in  performing  it.  He  had  a deep-rooted  objec- 
tion against  permitting  the  palm  of  his  hand  to 
be  seen;  a reluctance  which  common  fame  at- 
tributed to  the  fact  of  his  having  received  on 
that  part  the  impress  of  a hot  iron,  in  the  shape 
of  the  letter  T,  not  forgetting  to  add,  that  T 
was  the  hieroglyphic  for  Thief.  The  villain 
himself  affirmed  it  was  simply  the  mark  of  a 
cross,  burned  into  it  by  a blessed  friar,  as  a 
charm  against  St.  Vitus’s  dance,  to  which  he  had 
once  been  subject.  The  people,  however,  were 
rather  sceptical,  not  of  the  friar’s  power  to  cure 
that  malady,  but  of  the  fact  of  his  ever  having 
moved  a limb  under  it ; and  they  concluded  with 
telling  him,  good-humouredly  enough,  that  not- 
withstanding the  charm,  he  was  destined  to  die 
“ wid  the  threble  of  it  in  his  toe.”  The  third 
was  a noted  pedlar  called  Martin,  who,  under 
pretence  of  selling  tape,  pins,  scissors,  &c.,  was 
very  useful  in  setting  such  premises  as  this 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


15 


virtuous  fraternity  might,  without  much  risk, 
make  a descent  upon. 

“ I thought  yez  would  out-stay  your  time,” 
said  the  ' elder  Meehan,  relapsing  into  his  de- 
termined hardihood  of  character;  “we’re  ready, 
hours  agone.  Dick  Rice  gave  me  two  curlew 
an’  two  patrich  calls  to-day.  Now  pass  the 
glass  among  yez,  while  Denny  brings  the  arms. 
I know  there’s  danger  in  this  business,  in  regard 
of  the  Cassidys  livin’  so  near  us.  If  I see  any- 
body afut.  I’ll  use  the  curlew  call;  an’  if  not,  I’ll 
whistle  twice  on  the  patrich  ^ one,  an’  ye  may 
come  an.  The  horse  is  worth  eighty  guineas,  if 
he’s  worth  a shillin’ ; an’  we’ll  make  sixty  of  him 
ourselves.” 

For  some  time  they  chatted  about  the  plan  in 
contemplation,  and  drank  freely  of  the  spirits, 
until  at  length  the  impatience  of  the  elder  Mee- 
han at  the  delay  of  his  brother  became  ungovern- 
able. His  voice  deepened  into  tones  of  savage 
passion,  as  he  uttered  a series  of  blasphemous 
curses  against  this  unfortunate  butt  of  his  in- 
dignation and  malignity.  At  length  he  rushed 
out  furiously  to  know  why  he  did  not  return; 
but,  on  reaching  a secret  excavation  in  the 
mound  against  which  the  house  was  built,  he 
found,  to  his  utter  dismay,  that  Denis  had  made 
his  escape  by  an  artificial  passage,  scooped  out 
of  it  to  secure  themselves  a retreat  in  case  of 
surprise  or  detection.  It  opened  behind  the 
house  among  a clump  of  black-thorn  and  brush- 
wood, and  was  covered  with  green  turf  in  such 


16 


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a manner,  as  to  escape  the  notice  of  all  who  were 
not  acquainted  with  the  secret.  Meehan’s  face, 
on  his  return,  was  worked  up  into  an  expression 
truly  awful. 

“ We’re  sould!  ” said  he;  “ but,  stop.  I’ll  tache 
the  thraithur  what  revinge  is ! ” 

In  a moment  he  awoke  his  brother’s  two  sons, 
and  dragged  them  by  the  neck,  one  in  each  hand, 
to  the  hearth. 

“ Your  villain  of  a father’s  off,”  said  he,  “ to 
betray  us : go,  an’  folly  him ; bring  him  back,  an’ 
he’ll  be  safe  from  me:  but  let  him  become  a stag 
agin  us,  and  if  I should  hunt  you  both  into  the 
bowels  of  the  airth.  I’ll  send  yez  to  a short  ac- 
count. I don’t  care  that,”  and  he  snapped  his 
fingers — “ ha,  ha — no,  I don’t  care  that  for  the 
law ; I know  how  to  dale  with  it,  when  it  comes ! 
An,  what’s  the  stuff  about  the  other  world,  but 
priestcraft  and  lies!  ” 

“ Maybe,”  said  the  Big  Mower,  “ Denis  is  gone 
to  get  the  fore  way  of  us,  an’  to  take  the  horse 
himself.  Our  best  plan  is  to  lose  no  time,  at  all 
events ; so  let  us  hurry,  for  f raid  the  night  might 
happen  to  clear  up.” 

“ He!  ” said  Meehan,  “ he  go  alone!  No:  the 
miserable  wretch  is  afeard  of  his  own  shadow. 
I only  wondher  he  stuck  to  me  so  long:  but  sure 
he  wouldn’t,  only  I bate  the  courage  in,  and  the 
fear  out  of  him.  You’re  right,  Brian,”  said  he 
upon  reflection,  “ let  us  lose  no  time,  but  be  off. 
Do  ye  mind?”  he  added  to  his  nephews;  “Did 
ye  hear  me?  If  you  see  him,  let  him  come  back, 
an’  all  will  be  berrid;  but,  if  he  doesn’t,  you 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


17 


know  your  fate!”  Saying  which,  he  and  his 
accomplices  departed  amid  the  howhng  of  the 
storm. 

The  next  morning,  Carnmore,  and  indeed  the 
whole  parish,  was  in  an  uproar;  a horse,  worth 
eighty  guineas,  had  been  stolen  in  the  most  dar- 
ing manner  from  the  Cassidys,  and  the  hue-and- 
cry  was  up  after  the  thief  or  thieves  who  took 
him.  For  several  days  the  search  was  closely 
maintained,  but  without  success ; not  the  slightest 
trace  could  be  found  of  him  or  them.  The  Cas- 
sidys could  very  well  bear  to  lose  him;  but  there 
were  many  struggling  farmers,  on  whose  prop- 
erty serious  depredations  had  been  committed, 
who  could  not  sustain  their  loss  so  easily.  It 
was  natural  under  these  circumstances  that  sus- 
picion should  attach  to  many  persons,  some  of 
whom  had  but  indifferent  characters  before,  as 
well  as  to  several  who  certainly  had  never  de- 
served suspicion.  When  a fortnight  or  so  had 
elapsed,  and  no  circumstances  transpired  that 
might  lead  to  discovery,  the  neighbours,  includ- 
ing those  who  had  principally  suffered  by  the 
robberies,  determined  to  assemble  upon  a certain 
day  at  Cassidy’s  house,  for  the  purpose  of  clear- 
ing themselves,  on  oath,  of  the  imputations 
thrown  out  against  some  of  them,  as  accomplices 
in  the  thefts.  In  order,  however,  that  the  cere- 
mony should  be  performed  as  solemnly  as  possi- 
ble, they  determined  to  send  for  Father  Farrell, 
and  Mr.  Nicholson,  a magistrate,  both  of  whom 
they  requested  to  undertake  the  task  of  jointly 
presiding  upon  this  occasion;  and,  that  the  cir- 

III— 2 


18 


IRELAND 


cumstance  should  have  every  publicity,  it  was 
announced  from  the  altar  by  the  priest,  on  the 
preceding  Sabbath,  and  published  on  the  church- 
gate  in  large  legible  characters,  ingeniously 
printed  with  a pen  by  the  village  schoolmaster. 

In  fact,  the  intended  meeting,  and  the  object 
of  it,  were  already  notorious ; and  much  conversa- 
tion was  held  upon  its  probable  result,  and  the 
measures  which  might  be  taken  against  those 
who  should  refuse  to  swear.  Of  the  latter  de- 
scription there  was  but  one  opinion,  which  was 
that  their  refusal  in  such  a case  would  be  tanta- 
mount to  guilt.  The  innocent  were  anxious  to 
vindicate  themselves  from  suspicion:  and,  as  the 
suspected  did  not  amount  to  more  than  a dozen, 
of  course  the  whole  body  of  the  people,  including 
the  thieves  themselves,  who  applauded  it  as 
loudly  as  the  others,  all  expressed  their  satisfac- 
tion at  the  measures  about  to  be  adopted.  A 
day  was  therefore  appointed,  on  which  the  in- 
habitants of  the  neighbourhood,  particularly  the 
suspected  persons,  should  come  to  assemble  at 
Cassidy’s  house,  in  order  to  have  the  characters 
of  the  innocent  cleared  up,  and  the  guilty,  if 
possible,  made  known. 

On  the  evening  before  this  took  place,  were 
assembled  in  Meehan’s  cottage,  the  elder  Meehan, 
and  the  rest  of  the  gang,  including  Denis,  who 
had  absconded  on  the  night  of  the  theft. 

“Well,  well,  Denny,”  said  Anthony,  who 
forced  his  rugged  nature  into  an  appearance  of 
better  temper,  that  he  might  strengthen  the  timid 
spirit  of  his  brother  against  the  scrutiny  about  to 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


19 


take  place  on  the  morrow — perhaps,  too,  he 
dreaded  him — “ Well  well,  Denny,  I thought, 
sure  enough,  that  it  was  some  new  piece  of 
cowardice  came  over  you.  Just  think  of  him,” 
he  added,  “ shabbin’  off,  only  because  he  made, 
with  a bit  of  a rod,  three  strokes  in  the  ashes 
that  he  thought  resembled  a coffin! — ^ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

This  produced  a peal  of  derision  at  Denis’s 
pusillanimous  terror. 

“ Ay!  ” said  the  Big  Mower,  “ he  was  makin’ 
a coffin,  was  he?  I wondher  it  wasn’t  a rope 
you  drew,  Denny.  If  any  one  dies  in  the  coil, 
it  will  be  the  greatest  coward,  an’  that’s  your- 
self.” 

“ You  may  all  laugh,”  replied  Denis,  “ but  I 
know  such  things  to  have  a manin’.  When  my 
mother  died,  didn’t  my  father,  the  heavens  be 
his  bed ! see  a black  coach  about  a week  before  it  ? 
an’  sure  from  the  first  day  she  tuck  ill,  the  dead- 
watch  was  heard  in  the  house  every  night:  and 
what  was  more  nor  that,  she  kept  warm  until  she 
went  into  her  grave ; ^ an’,  accordingly,  didn’t 
my  sisther  Shibby  die  within  a year  afther?  ” 

“ It’s  no  matther  about  thim  things,”  replied 
Anthony;  “it’s  thruth  about  the  dead-watch, 
my  mother  keepin’  warm,  an’  Shibby’s  death,  any 
way.  But  on  the  night  we  tuck  Cassidy’s  horse, 
I thought  you  were  goin’  to  betray  us:  I was 
surely  in  a murdherin’  passion,  an’  would  have 
done  harm,  only  things  turned  out  as  they  did.” 

“ Why,”  said  Denis,  “ the  thruth  is,  I was 
afeard  some  of  us  would  be  shot,  an’  that  the 
lot  would  fall  on  myself;  for  the  coffin,  thinks 


20 


IRELAND 


I,  was  sent  as  a warnin’.  How-and-ever,  I spied 
about  Cassidy’s  stable,  till  I seen  that  the  coast 
was  clear;  so  whin  I heard  the  low  cry  of  the 
patrich  that  Anthony  and  I agreed  on,  I joined 
yez.” 

“ Well,  about  to-morrow,”  observed  Kenny — 
“ ha,  ha,  ha! — there’ll  be  lots  o’  swearin’.  Why 
the  whole  parish  is  to  switch  the  primer;  many 
a thumb  and  coat-cuff  will  be  kissed  in  spite  of 
priest  or  magistrate.  I remimber  once,  whin  I 
was  swearin’  an  alibi  for  long  Paddy  Murray, 
that  suffered  for  the  M‘Gees,  I kissed  my  thumb, 
I thought,  so  smoothly,  that  no  one  would  notice 
it;  but  I had  a keen  one  to  dale  with,  so  says  he, 
‘ You  know  for  the  matther  o’  that,  my  good 
fellow,  that  you  have  your  thumb  to  kiss  every 
day  in  the  week,’  says  he,  ‘ but  you  might  salute 
the  booh  out  o’  dacency  and  good  manners ; not,’ 
says  he,  ‘ that  you  an’  it  are  strangers  aither ; 
for,  if  I don’t  mistake,  you’re  an  ould  hand  at 
swearin’  alibis.’ 

At  all  evints,  I had  to  smack  the  book  itself, 
and  it’s  I,  and  Barney  Green,  and  Tim  Casserly, 
that  did  swear  stiffly  for  Paddy,  but  the  thing 
was  too  clear  agin  him.  So  he  suffered,  poor 
fellow,  an’  died  right  game,  for  he  said  over  his 
dhrop — ha,  ha,  ha — that  he  was  as  innocent  o’  the 
murder  as  a child  unborn:  an’  so  he  was  in  one 
sinse,  bein’  afther  gettin’  absolution.” 

“ As  to  thumb-kissin’,”  observed  the  elder 
Meehan;  “ let  there  be  none  of  it  among  us  to- 
morrow; if  we’re  caught  at  it  ’twould  be  as  bad 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


21 


as  stayin’  away  altogether;  for  my  part,  I’ll  give 
it  a smack  like  a pistol-shot — ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

“ I hope  they  won’t  bring  the  priest’s  book,” 
said  Denis.  “ I haven’t  the  laste  objection  agin 
payin’  my  respects  to  the  magistrate's  paper,  but 
somehow  I don’t  like  tastin’  the  priest's  in  a 
falsity.” 

“ Don’t  you  know,”  said  the  Big  Mower, 
“ that  whin  a magistrate’s  present,  it’s  ever  an’ 
always  only  the  Tistament  hy  law  that’s  used. 
I myself  wouldn’t  kiss  the  mass-book  in  a 
falsity.” 

“ There’s  none  of  us  sayin’  we’d  do  it  in  a lie,” 
said  the  elder  Meehan;  “ an’  it’s  well  for  thou- 
sands that  the  law  doesn’t  use  the  priest’s  book; 
though,  after  all,  aren’t  there  books  that  say 
religion’s  all  a sham?  I think  myself  it  is;  for 
if  what  they  talk  about  justice  an’  Providence  is 
thrue,  would  Tom  Dillon  be  transported  for  the 
robbery  we  committed  at  Bantry?  Tom,  it’s 
true,  was  an  ould  offender;  but  he  was  innocent 
of  that,  any  way.  The  world’s  all  chance,  boys, 
as  sargint  Eustace  used  to  say,  and  whin  we  die 
there’s  no  more  about  us ; so  that  I don’t  see  why 
a man  mightn’t  as  well  switch  the  priest’s  book 
as  any  other,  only  that,  somehow,  a body  can’t 
shake  the  terror  of  it  off  o’  them.” 

“ I dunna,  Anthony,  but  you  an’  I ought  to 
curse  that  sargint;  only  for  him  we  mightn’t  be 
as  we  are,  sore  in  our  conscience,  an’  afeard  of 
every  fut  we  hear  passin’,”  observed  Denis. 

“ Spake  for  your  own  cowardly  heart,  man 


22 


IRELAND 


alive/’  replied  Anthony;  ‘‘  for  my  part,  I’m 
afeard  o’  nothin’.  Put  round  the  glass,  and 
don’t  be  nursin’  it  there  all  night.  Sure  we’re 
not  so  bad  as  the  rot  among  the  sheep,  nor  the 
black  leg  among  the  bullocks,  nor  the  staggers 
among  the  horses,  any  how;  an’  yet  they’d  hang 
us  up  only  for  bein’  fond  of  a bit  o’  mate — ha, 
ha,  ha!  ” 

“ Thrue  enough,”  said  the  Big  Mower,  philos- 
ophizing— “ God  made  the  beef  and  the  mutton, 
and  the  grass  to  fed  it;  but  it  was  man  made  the 
ditches:  now  we’re  only  bringin’  things  back  to 
the  right  way  that  Providence  made  them  in, 
when  ould  times  were  in  it,  manin’  before  ditches 
war  invinted — ^ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

“ ’Tis  a good  argument,”  observed  Kenny, 
“ only  that  judge  and  jury  would  be  a little  deli- 
cate in  actin’  up  to  it;  an’  the  more’s  the  pity. 
Howsomever,  as  Providence  made  the  mutton, 
sure  it’s  not  harm  for  us  to  take  what  he  sends.” 
“ Ay;  but,”  said  Denis, 

* God  made  man,  an’  man  made  money ; 

God  made  bees,  and  bees  made  honey: 

God  made  Satan,  an’  Satan  made  sin; 

An’  God  made  a hell  to  put  Satan  in.’ 

Let  nobody  say  there’s  not  a hell;  isn’t  there  it 
plain  from  Scripthur?  ” 

“ I wish  you  had  the  Scripthur  tied  about  your 
neck!  ” replied  Anthony — “ How  fond  of  it  one 
o’  the  greatest  thieves  that  ever  missed  the  rope 
is!  Why  the  fellow  could  plan  a roguery  with 
any  man  that  ever  danced  the  hangman’s  horn- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


23 


pipe,  and  yet  he  he’s  repatin’  bits  an’  scraps  of 
ould  prayers,  an’  charms,  an’  stuff.  Ay,  in- 
deed ! Sure  he  has  a varse  out  o’  the  Bible,  that 
he  thinks  can  prevent  a man  from  bein’  hung 
up  any  day!  ” 

While  Denny,  the  Big  JNIower,  and  the  two 
Meehans  were  thus  engaged  in  giving  expression 
to  their  peculiar  opinions,  the  Pedlar  held  a con- 
versation of  a different  kind  with  Anne. 

With  the  secrets  of  the  family  in  his  keeping, 
he  commenced  a rather  penitent  review  of  his 
own  life,  and  expressed  his  intention  of  abandon- 
ing so  dangerous  a mode  of  accumulating  wealth. 
He  said  that  he  thanked  heaven  he  had  already 
laid  up  sufficient  for  the  wants  of  a reasonable 
man;  that  he  understood  farming  and  the  man- 
agement of  sheep  particularly  well:  that  it  was 
his  intention  to  remove  to  a different  part  of  the 
kingdom,  and  take  a farm;  and  that  nothing 
prevented  him  from  having  done  this  before,  but 
the  want  of  a helpmate  to  take  care  of  his  estab- 
lishment: he  added,  that  his  present  wife  was  of 
an  intolerable  temper,  and  a greater  villain  by 
fifty  degrees  than  himself.  He  concluded  by 
saying,  that  his  conscience  twitched  him  night  and 
day  for  living  with  her,  and  that  by  abandoning 
her  immediately,  becoming  truly  religious,  and 
taking  Anne  in  her  place,  he  hoped,  he  said,  to 
atone  in  some  measure  for  his  former  errors. 

Anthony,  however,  having  noticed  the  ear- 
nestness which  marked  the  Pedlar’s  manner,  sus- 
pected him  of  attempting  to  corrupt  the  princi- 
ples of  his  daughter,  having  forgotten  the 


24 


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influence  which  his  own  opinions  were  calculated 
to  produce  upon  her  heart. 

“ Martin,”  said  he,  “ ’twould  be  as  well  you 
ped  attention  to  what  we’re  sayin’  in  regard  o’ 
the  trial  to-morrow,  as  to  be  palaverin’  talk  into 
the  girl’s  ear  that  can’t  be  good  cornin’  from 
your  lips.  Quit  it,  I say,  quit  it!  Cory  an 
duowol^ — I won’t  allow  such  proceedins!  ” 

“ Swear  till  you  blister  your  Hps,  Anthony,” 
rephed  Martin:  “ as  for  me,  bein’  no  residenthur, 
I’m  not  bound  to  it;  an’  what’s  more,  I’m  not 
suspected.  ’Tis  settin’  some  other  bit  o’  work 
for  yez  I’ll  be,  while  you’re  all  clearin’  your- 
selves from  stealin’  honest  Cassidy’s  horse.  I 
wish  we  had  him  safely  disposed  of  in  the  mane 
time,  an’  the  money  for  him  an’  the  other  beasts 
in  our  pockets.” 

Much  more  conversation  of  a similar  kind 
passed  between  them  upon  various  topics  con- 
nected with  their  profligacy  and  crimes.  At 
length  they  separated  for  the  night,  after  hav- 
ing concerted  their  plan  of  action  for  the  en- 
suing scrutiny. 

The  next  morning,  before  the  hour  appointed 
arrived,  the  parish,  particularly  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Carnmore,  was  struck  with  deep  conster- 
nation. Labour  became  suspended,  mirth  dis- 
appeared, and  every  face  was  marked  with  pale- 
ness, anxiety,  and  apprehension.  If  two  men 
met,  one  shook  his  head  mysteriously,  and  in- 
quired from  the  other,  “Did  you  hear  the  news?  ” 

“ Ay!  ay!  the  Lord  be  about  us  all,  I did!  an’ 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


25 


I pray  God  that  it  may  lave  the  counthry  as  it 
came  to  it!  ” 

“ Oh,  an’  that  it  may,  I humbly  make  suppli- 
cation this  day!  ” 

If  two  women  met,  it  was  with  similar  mystery 
and  fear.  ‘‘  Vread/  do  you  know  what’s  at  the 
Cassidys’?  ” 

“Whisht,  a-hagur,  I do;  but  let  what  will 
happen,  sure  it’s  best  for  us  to  say  nothin’.” 

“ Say!  the  blessed  Virgin  forbid!  I’d  cut  my 
hand  otF  o’  me,  afore  I’d  spake  a word  about  it; 
only  that ” 

“Whisht!  woman  — for  mercy’s  sake  — 
don’t ” 

And  so  they  would  separate,  each  crossing  her- 
self devoutly. 

The  meeting  at  Cassidy’s  was  to  take  place 
that  day  at  twelve  o’clock;  but,  about  two  hours 
before  the  appointed  time,  Anne,  who  had  been 
in  some  of  the  other  houses,  came  into  her  fa- 
ther’s, quite  pale,  breathless  and  trembhng. 

“Oh!”  she  exclaimed,  with  clasped  hands, 
whilst  the  tears  fell  fast  from  her  eyes,  “ we’ll 
be  lost,  ruined ; — did  yez  hear  what’s  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood wid  the  Cassidys’  ? ” 

“ Girl,”  said  the  father,  with  more  severity 
than  he  had  ever  manifested  to  her  before,  “ I 
never  yit  m my  hand  to  you,  but  ma  corp  an 
duowol,  if  you  open  your  lips.  I’ll  fell  you  where 
you  stand.  Do  you  want  that  cowardly  uncle 
o’  yours  to  be  the  manes  o’  hanging  your  father? 
Maybe  that  was  one  o’  the  lessons  Martin  gave 


26 


IRELAND 


you  last  night?”  And  as  he  spoke  he  knit  his 
brows  at  her  with  that  murderous  scowl  which 
was  habitual  to  him.  The  girl  trembled,  and 
began  to  think  that  since  her  father’s  temper 
deepened  in  domestic  outrage  and  violence  as  his 
crimes  multiplied,  the  sooner  she  left  the  family 
the  better.  Every  day,  indeed,  diminished  that 
species  of  instinctive  affection  which  she  had 
entertained  towards  him;  and  this,  in  proportion 
as  her  reason  ripened  into  a capacity  for  compre- 
hending the  dark  materials  of  which  his  char- 
acter was  composed.  Whether  he  himself  began 
to  consider  detection  at  hand,  or  not,  we  cannot 
say ; but  it  is  certain,  that  his  conduct  was 
marked  with  a callous  recklessness  of  spirit, 
which  increased  in  atrocity  to  such  a degree,  that 
even  his  daughter  could  only  not  look  on  him  with 
disgust, 

“What’s  the  matter  now?”  inquired  Denis, 
with  alarm:  “ is  it  any  thing  about  us,  Anthony?  ” 

“No,  ’tisn’t,”  replied  the  other,  “ anything 
about  us!  What  ’ud  it  be  about  us  for?  ’Tis 
a lyin’  report  that  some  cunnin’  knave  spread, 
hopin’  to  find  out  the  guilty.  But  hear  me, 
Denis,  once  for  all;  we’re  goin’  to  clear  ourselves 
— now  listen — an’  let  my  words  sink  deep  into 
your  heart:  if  you  refuse  to  swear  this  day — no 
matther  whafs  put  into  your  hand — you’ll  do 
harm — that’s  all:  have  courage,  man;  but  should 
you  cow,  your  coorse  will  be  short;  an’  mark, 
even  if  you  escape  me,  your  sons  won’t:  I have 
it  all  planned;  an’  corp  an  duowol!  thim  you 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  27 

won’t  know  from  Adam  will  revenge  me,  if  I’m 
taken  up  through  your  unmanliness.” 

“ ’T would  be  betther  for  us  to  lave  the  coun- 
thry,”  said  Anne;  “ we  might  slip  away  as  it  is.” 
“Ay,”  said  the  father,  “an’  be  taken  by  the 
neck  afore  we’d  get  two  miles  from  the  place! 
no,  no,  girl;  it’s  the  safest  way  to  brazen  thim 
out.  Did  you  hear  me,  Denis?  ” 

Denis  started,  for  he  had  been  evidently  pon- 
dering on  the  mysterious  words  of  Anne,  to 
which  his  brother’s  anxiety  to  conceal  them  gave 
additional  mystery.  The  coffin,  too,  recurred  to 
him;  and  he  feared  that  the  death  shadowed  out 
by  it,  would  in  some  manner  or  other  occur  in 
the  family.  He  was,  in  fact,  one  of  those  miser- 
able villains  with  but  half  a conscience; — that 
is  to  say,  as  much  as  makes  them  the  slaves  of 
the  fear  which  results  from  crime,  without  being 
the  slightest  impediment  to  their  committing  it. 
It  was  no  wonder  he  started  at  the  deep  pervad- 
ing tones  of  his  brother’s  voice,  for  the  question 
was  put  with  ferocious  energy. 

On  starting,  he  looked  with  vague  terror  on 
his  brother,  fearing,  but  not  comprehending,  his 
question. 

“ What  is  it,  Anthony?  ” he  inquired. 

“ Oh,  for  that  matther,”  replied  the  other, 
“ nothin’  at  all:  think  of  what  I said  to  you,  any 
how;  swear  through  thick  an’  thin,  if  you  have 
a regard  for  your  own  health,  or  for  your  chil- 
dher.  Maybe  I had  betther  repate  it  agin  for 
you?”  he  continued,  eying  him  with  mingled 


28 


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fear  and  suspicion.  “ Denis,  as  a friend,  I bid 
you  mind  yourself  this  day,  an’  see  you  don’t 
bring  aither  of  us  into  throuble.” 

There  lay  before  the  Cassidys’  houses  a small 
flat  of  common,  trodden  into  rings  by  the  young 
horses  they  were  in  the  habit  of  training.  On 
this  level  space  were  assembled  those  who  came, 
either  to  clear  their  own  character  from  suspicion, 
or  to  witness  the  ceremony.  The  day  was  dark 
and  lowering,  and  heavy  clouds  rolled  slowly 
across  the  peaks  of  the  surrounding  mountains; 
scarcely  a breath  of  air  could  be  felt;  and,  as 
the  country  people  silently  approached,  such  was 
the  closeness  of  the  day,  their  haste  to  arrive  in 
time,  and  their  general  anxiety,  either  for  them- 
selves or  their  friends,  that  almost  every  man,  on 
reaching  the  spot,  might  be  seen  taking  up  the 
skirts  of  his  “ cothamore,”  or  ‘‘big  coat,”  (the 
peasant’s  handkerchief),  to  wipe  the  sweat  from 
his  brow;  and  as  he  took  off  his  dingy  woollen 
hat,  or  caubeen,  the  perspiration  rose  in  strong 
exhalations  from  his  head. 

“Michael,  am  I in  time?”  might  be  heard 
from  such  persons,  as  they  arrived:  “did  this 
business  begin  yit?” 

“ Full  time,  Larry;  my  self’s  here  an  hour  ago, 
but  no  appearance  of  anything  as  yit.  Father 
Farrell  an’  Squire  Nicholson  are  both  in  Cassidys’ 
waitin’  till  they’re  all  gotlier,  whin  they’ll  begin 
to  put  thim  through  their  facins.  You  hard 
about  what  they’ve  got?  ” 

“ No;  for  I’m  only  on  my  way  home  from  the 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


29 


berril  of  a cleaveen  of  mine,  that  we  put  down 
this  mornin’  in  Tullyard.  What  is  it?” 

“ Why,  man  alive,  it’s  through  the  whole  parish 
inready;  ” — he  then  went  on,  lowering  his  voice 
to  a whisper,  and  speaking  in  a tone  hordering 
on  dismay. 

The  other  crossed  himself,  and  betrayed  symp- 
toms of  awe  and  astonishment,  not  unmingled 
with  fear. 

“ Well,”  he  replied,  “ I dunna  whether  I’d 
come  here,  if  I’d  known  that;  for,  innocent  or 
guilty,  I wouldn’t  wish  to  be  near  it.  Och,  may 
God  pity  thim  that’s  to  come  acrass  it,  espishily 
if  they  dare  to  do  it  in  a lie!  ” 

“ They  needn’t,  I can  tell  yez  both,”  observed 
a third  person,  “ be  a hair  afeard  of  it,  for  the 
best  razon  livin’,  that  there’s  no  thruth  at  all  in 
the  report,  nor  the  Cassidys  never  thought  of 
sindin’  for  anything  o’  the  kind:  I have  it  from 
Larry  Cassidy’s  own  lips,  an’  he  ought  to  know- 
best.” 

The  truth  is,  that  two  reports  were  current 
among  the  crowd:  one,  that  the  oath  was  to  be 
simply  on  the  Bible;  and  the  other,  that  a more 
awful  means  of  expurgation  was  resorted  to  by 
the  Cassidys.  The  people,  consequently,  not 
knowing  which  to  credit,  felt  that  most  painful 
of  all  sensations — uncertainty. 

During  the  period  which  intervened  between 
their  assembling  and  the  commencement  of  the 
ceremony,  a spectator,  interested  in  contempla- 
ting the  workings  of  human  nature  in  circum- 


30 


IRELAND 


stances  of  deep  interest,  would  have  had  ample 
scope  for  observation.  The  occasion  was  to 
them  a solemn  one.  There  was  little  conversa- 
tion among  them;  for  when  a man  is  wound  up 
to  a pitch  of  great  interest,  he  is  seldom  disposed 
to  relish  discourse.  Every  brow  was  anxious, 
every  cheek  blanched,  and  every  arm  folded: 
they  scarcely  stirred,  or  when  they  did,  only  with 
slow  abstracted  movements,  rather  mechanical 
than  voluntary.  If  an  individual  made  his  ap- 
pearance about  Cassidy’s  door,  a sluggish  stir 
among  them  was  visible,  and  a low  murmur  of  a 
peculiar  character  might  be  heard;  but  on  per- 
ceiving that  it  was  only  some  ordinary  person, 
all  subsided  again  into  a brooding  stillness  that 
was  equally  singular  and  impressive. 

Under  this  peculiar  feeling  was  the  multitude, 
when  Meehan  and  his  brother  were  seen  ap- 
proaching it  from  their  own  house.  The  elder, 
with  folded  arms,  and  hat  pulled  over  his  brows, 
stalked  grimly  forward,  having  that  remarkable 
scowl  upon  his  face,  which  had  contributed  to 
establish  for  him  so  diabolical  a character.  Denis 
walked  by  his  side,  with  his  countenance  strained 
to  inflation; — a miserable  parody  of  that  sullen 
effrontery  which  marked  the  unshrinking  mis- 
creant beside  him.  He  had  not  heard  of  the 
ordeal,  owing  to  the  caution  of  Anthony;  but, 
notwithstanding  his  effort  at  indifference,  a 
keen  eye  might  have  observed  the  latent  anxiety 
of  a man  who  was  habitually  villanous,  and 
naturally  timid. 

When  this  pair  entered  the  crowd,  a few  secret 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


31 


glances,  too  rapid  to  be  noticed  by  the  people, 
passed  between  them  and  their  accomplices. 
Denis,  on  seeing  them  present,  took  fresh  cour- 
age, and  looked  with  the  heroism  of  a blusterer 
upon  those  who  stood  about  him,  especially  when- 
ever he  found  himself  under  the  scrutinizing  eye 
of  his  brother.  Such  was  the  horror  and  de- 
testation in  which  they  were  held,  that  on 
advancing  into  the  assembly,  the  persons  on  each 
side  turned  away,  and  openly  avoided  them: 
eyes  full  of  fierce  hatred  were  bent  on  them  vin- 
dictively, and  “ curses,  not  loud,  but  deep,”  were 
muttered  with  an  indignation  which  nothing  but 
a divided  state  of  feeling  could  repress  within 
due  limits.  Every  glance,  however,  was  paid 
back  by  Anthony  with  interest,  from  eyes  and 
black  shaggy  brows  tremendously  ferocious;  and 
his  curses,  as  they  rolled  up  half  smothered  from 
his  huge  chest,  were  deeper  and  more  diabolical 
by  far  than  their  own.  He  even  jeered  at  them; 
but,  however  disgusting  his  frown,  there  was 
something  truly  appalling  in  the  dark  gleam  of 
his  scoff,  which  threw  them  at  an  immeasurable 
distance  behind  him,  in  the  power  of  displaying 
on  the  countenance  the  worst  of  human  passions. 

At  length  Mr.  Nicholson,  Father  Farrell,  and 
his  curate,  attended  by  the  Cassidys  and  their 
friends,  issued  from  the  house:  two  or  three  serv- 
ants preceded  them,  bearing  a table  and  chairs 
for  the  magistrate  and  priests,  who,  however, 
stood  during  the  ceremony.  When  they  entered 
one  of  the  rings  before  alluded  to,  the  table  and 
chairs  were  placed  in  the  centre  of  it,  and  Father 


32 


IRELAND 


Farrell,  as  possessing  most  influence  over  the 
people,  addressed  them  very  impressively. 

“ There  are,”  said  he,  in  conclusion,  “ persons 
in  this  crowd  whom  we  know  to  be  guilty ; but  we 
will  have  an  opportunity  of  now  witnessing  the 
lengths  to  which  crime,  long  indulged  in,  can 
carry  them.  To  such  people  I would  say,  be- 
ware! for  they  know  not  the  situation  in  which 
they  are  placed.” 

During  all  this  time  there  was  not  the  slightest 
allusion  made  to  the  mysterious  ordeal  which  had 
excited  so  much  awe  and  apprehension  among 
them — a circumstance  which  occasioned  many  a 
pale,  downcast  face  to  clear  up,  and  reassume  its 
usual  and  cheerful  expression.  The  crowd  now 
were  assembled  around  the  ring,  and  every  man 
on  whom  an  imputation  had  been  fastened  came 
forward,  when  called  upon,  to  the  table  at  which 
the  priests  and  magistrates  stood  uncovered. 
The  form  of  the  oath  was  framed  by  the  two 
clergymen,  who,  as  they  knew  the  reservations 
and  evasions  commonest  among  such  characters, 
had  ingeniously  contrived  not  to  leave  a single 
loophole  through  which  the  consciences  of  those 
who  belonged  to  this  worthy  fraternity  might  es- 
cape. 

To  those  acquainted  with  Irish  courts  of  jus- 
tice there  was  nothing  particularly  remarkable 
in  the  swearing.  Indeed,  one  who  stood  among 
the  crowd  might  hear  from  those  who  were  sta- 
tioned at  the  greatest  distance  from  the  table, 
such  questions  as  the  following: — 

“ Is  the  thing  in  it,  Art?  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


33 


“No;  ’tis  nothin’  but  the  law  Bible,  the  mag- 
istrate’s own  one.” 

To  this  the  querist  would  reply,  with  a satis- 
fied nod  of  the  head,  “ Oh,  is  that  all?  I heard 
they  war  to  have  on  which  he  would  push 
himself  through  the  crowd  until  he  reached  the 
table,  where  he  took  his  oath  as  readily  as  another. 

“ Jem  Hartigan,”  said  the  magistrate,  to  one 
of  those  persons,  “ are  you  to  swear?  ” 

“ Faix,  myself  doesn’t  know,  your  honour ; 
only  that  I hard  them  say  that  the  Cassidys  min- 
tioned  our  names  along  wid  many  other  honest 
people;  an’  one  wouldn’t,  in  that  case,  lie  under 
a false  report,  your  honour,  from  any  one,  when 
we’re  as  clear  as  them  that  never  saw  the  light  of 
anything  of  the  kind.” 

The  magistrate  then  put  the  book  into  his 
hand,  and  Jem,  in  return,  fixed  his  eye,  with 
much  apparent  innocence,  on  his  face:  “Now, 
Jem  Hartigan,”  &c.  &c.  and  the  oath  was  ac- 
cordingly administered.  Jem  put  the  book  to 
his  mouth,  with  his  thumb  raised  to  an  acute 
angle  on  the  back  of  it;  nor  was  the  smack  by 
any  means  a silent  one  which  he  gave  it,  (his 
thumb). 

The  magistrate  set  his  ear  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  had  experience  in  discriminating  such 
sounds.  “ Hartigan,”  said  he,  “ you’ll  conde- 
scend to  kiss  the  hook^  Sir,  if  you  please : there’s 
a hollowness  in  that  smack,  my  good  fellow,  that 
can’t  escape  me/^ 

“Not  kiss  it,  your  honour?  why,  by  this  staff 
in  my  hand,  if  ever  a man  kissed  ” — 

III— 3 


34 


IRELAND 


“ Silence!  you  impostor,”  said  the  curate;  ‘‘  I 
watched  you  closely,  and  am  confident  your  lips 
never  touched  the  book.” 

“ My  lips  never  touched  the  book! — ^Why,  you 
know  I’d  be  sarry  to  conthradict  either  o’  yez; 
but  I was  jist  goin’  to  absarve,  wid  simmission, 
that  my  own  lips  ought  to  know  best;  an’  don’t 
you  hear  them  tellin’  you  that  they  did  kiss  it?  ” 
and  he  grinned  with  confidence  in  their  faces. 

“You  double-dealing  reprobate!”  said  the 
parish  priest,  “ I’ll  lay  my  whip  across  your  jaws. 
I saw  you,  too,  an’  you  did  not  kiss  the  book.” 

“ By  dad,  an’  maybe  I did  not,  sure  enough,” 
he  replied:  “ any  man  may  make  a mistake  un- 
knownst  to  himself ; but  I’d  give  my  oath,  an’ 
be  the  five  crasses,  I kissed  it  as  sure  as how- 

ever, a good  thing’s  never  the  worse  o’  bein’ 
twice  done,  gintlemen;  so  here  goes,  jist  to  sat- 
isfy yez;  ” and,  placing  the  book  near  his  mouth, 
and  altering  his  position  a little,  he  appeared  to 
comply,  though,  on  the  contrary,  he  touched 
neither  it  nor  his  thumb.  “ It’s  the  same  thing 
to  me,”  he  continued,  laying  down  the  book  with 
an  air  of  confident  assurance ; “ it’s  the  same 
thing  to  me  if  I kissed  it  fifty  times  over,  which 
I’m  ready  to  do  if  that  doesn’t  satisfy  yez.” 

As  every  man  acquitted  himself  of  the 
charges  brought  against  him,  the  curate  imme- 
diately took  down  his  name.  Indeed,  before  the 
“ clearing  ” commenced,  he  requested  that  such 
as  were  to  swear  would  stand  together  within  the 
ring,  that,  after  having  sworn,  he  might  hand 
each  of  them  a certificate  of  the  fact,  which  they 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


35 


appeared  to  think  might  be  serviceable  to  them, 
should  they  happen  to  be  subsequently  indicted 
for  the  same  crime  in  a court  of  justice.  This, 
however,  was  only  a plan  to  keep  them  together 
for  what  was  soon  to  take  place. 

The  detections  of  thumb-kissing  were  received 
by  those  who  had  already  sworn,  and  by  several 
in  the  outward  crowd,  with  much  mirth.  It  is 
but  justice,  however,  to  the  majority  of  those  as- 
sembled to  state,  that  they  appeared  to  entertain 
a serious  opinion  of  the  nature  of  the  ceremony, 
and  no  small  degree  of  abhorrence  against  those 
who  seemed  to  trifle  with  the  solemnity  of  an 
oath. 

Standing  on  the  edge  of  the  circle,  in  the  in- 
nermost row,  were  Meehan  and  his  brother.  The 
former  eyed,  with  all  the  hardness  of  a Stoic, 
the  successive  individuals  as  they  passed  up 
to  the  table.  His  accomplices  had  gone 
forward,  and  to  the  surprise  of  many  who 
strongly  suspected  them,  in  the  most  indifferent 
manner  “ cleared  ” themselves  in  the  trying 
words  of  the  oath,  of  all  knowledge  of,  and  par- 
ticipation in,  the  thefts  that  had  taken  place. 

The  grim  visage  of  the  elder  Meehan  was 
marked  by  a dark  smile,  scarcely  perceptible; 
but  his  brother,  whose  nerves  were  not  so  firm, 
appeared  somewhat  confused  and  distracted  by 
the  imperturbable  villany  of  the  perjurers. 

At  length  they  were  called  up.  Anthony  ad- 
vanced slowly  but  collectedly,  to  the  table,  only 
turning  his  eye  slightly  about,  to  observe  if  his 
brother  accompanied  him.  “ Denis,”  said  he. 


36 


IRELAND 


‘‘which  of  us  will  swear  first?  you  may;”  for, 
as  he  doubted  his  brother’s  firmness,  he  was  pru- 
dent enough,  should  he  fail,  to  guard  against 
having  the  sin  of  perjury  to  answer  for,  along 
with  those  demands  which  his  country  had  to 
make  for  his  other  crimes.  Denis  took  the  book, 
and  cast  a slight  glance  at  his  brother  as  if  for 
encouragement  ; their  eyes  met,  and  the  darkened 
brow  of  Anthony  hinted  at  the  danger  of  flinch- 
ing in  this  crisis.  The  tremor  of  his  hand  was 
not,  perhaps,  visible  to  any  but  Anthony,  who, 
however,  did  not  overlook  this  circumstance. 
He  held  the  book,  but  raised  not  his  eye  to  meet 
the  looks  of  either  the  magistrate  or  the  priest; 
the  colour  also  left  his  face,  as  with  shrinking 
lips  he  touched  the  Word  of  God  in  deliberate 
falsehood.  Having  then  laid  it  down,  Anthony 
received  it  with  a firm  grasp,  and  whilst  his  eye 
turned  boldly  in  contemptuous  mockery  upon 
those  who  presented  it,  he  impressed  it  with  the 
kiss  of  a man  whose  depraved  conscience  seemed 
to  goad  him  only  to  evil.  After  “ clearing  ” 
himself,  he  laid  the  Bible  upon  the  table  with 
the  affected  air  of  a person  who  felt  hurt  at  the 
imputation  of  theft,  and  joined  the  rest  with  a 
frown  upon  his  countenance,  and  a smothered 
curse  upon  his  lips. 

Just  at  this  moment,  a person  from  Cassidy’s 
house  laid  upon  the  table  a small  box  covered 
with  black  cloth;  and  our  readers  will  be  sur- 
prised to  hear,  that  if  fire  had  come  down  visibly 
from  heaven,  greater  awe  and  fear  could  not  have 
been  struck  into  their  hearts,  or  depicted  upon 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


37 


their  countenances.  The  casual  conversation, 
and  the  commentaries  upon  the  ceremony  they 
had  witnessed,  instantly  settled  into  a most  pro- 
found silence,  and  every  eye  was  turned  towards 
it  with  an  interest  absolutely  fearful. 

‘‘  Let,”  said  the  curate,  “ none  of  those  who 
have  sworn  depart  from  wdthin  the  ring,  until 
they  once  more  clear  themselves  upon  this ; ” and 
as  he  spoke,  he  held  it-  up — “ Behold!  ” said  he, 
“ and  tremble — behold  The  Donagh!  ! ! ” 

A low  murmur  of  awe  and  astonishment  burst 
from  the  people  in  general,  wliilst  those  within 
the  ring,  who,  with  few  exceptions,  were  the 
worst  characters  in  the  parish,  appeared  ready  to 
sink  into  the  earth.  Their  countenances,  for  the 
most  part,  paled  into  the  condemned  hue  of  guilt ; 
many  of  them  became  almost  unable  to  stand; 
and  altogether,  the  state  of  trepidation  and  terror 
in  which  they  stood,  was  strikingly  wild  and  ex- 
traordinary. 

The  curate  proceeded:  ‘‘  Let  him  now  who  is 

guilty  depart ; or  if  he  wishes,  advance,  and  chal- 
lenge the  awful  penalty  annexed  to  perjury 
upon  THIS  1 Who  has  ever  been  known  to  swear 
falsely  upon  the  Donagh,  without  being  visited 
by  a tremendous  punishment,  either  on  the  spot, 
or  in  twenty-four  hours  after  his  perjury?  If 
we  ourselves  have  not  seen  such  instances  wdth 
our  own  eyes,  it  is  because  none  liveth  who  dare 
incur  such  a dreadful  penalty;  but  we  have  heard 
of  those  who  did,  and  of  their  awful  punishment 
afterwards.  Sudden  death,  madness,  paralysis, 
self-destruction,  or  the  murder  of  some  one  dear 


38 


IRELAND 


to  them,  are  the  marks  by  which  perjury  upon 
the  Donagh  is  known  and  visited.  Advance, 
now,  ye  who  are  innocent,  but  let  the  guilty  with- 
draw; for  we  do  not  desire  to  witness  the  terrible 
vengeance  which  would  attend  a false  oath  upon 
the  Donagh.  Pause,  therefore,  and  be  cautious! 
for  if  this  grievous  sin  be  committed,  a hea\y 
punishment  will  fall,  not  only  upon  you,  but 
upon  the  parish  in  which  it  occurs  1 ” 

The  words  of  the  priest  sounded  to  the  guilty 
like  the  death-sentence  of  a judge.  Before  he 
had  concluded,  all,  except  Meehan  and  his 
brother,  and  a few  who  were  really  innocent,  had 
slunk  back  out  of  the  circle  into  the  crowd. 
Denis,  however,  became  pale  as  a corpse;  and 
from  time  to  time  wiped  the  large  drops  from  his 
haggard  brow : even  Anthony’s  cheek,  despite  of 
his  natural  callousness,  was  less  red;  his  eyes  be- 
came disturbed;  but  by  their  influence,  he  con- 
trived to  keep  Denis  in  sufficient  dread,  to  prevent 
him  from  minghng,  like  the  rest,  among  the  peo- 
ple. The  few  who  remained  along  with  them 
advanced;  and  notwithstanding  their  innocence, 
when  the  Donagh  was  presented  and  the  flgure 
of  Christ  and  the  Twelve  Apostles  displayed  in 
the  solemn  tracery  of  its  carving,  they  exhibited 
symptoms  of  fear.  With  trembling  hands  they 
touched  the  Donagh,  and  with  trembling  lips 
kissed  the  Cruciflx,  in  attestation  of  their  guilt- 
lessness of  the  charge  with  which  they  had  been 
accused. 

“ Anthony  and  Denis  Meehan,  come  forward,” 
said  the  curate,  “ and  declare  your  innocence  of 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


39 


the  crimes  with  which  you  are  charged  by  the 
Cassidys  and  others.” 

Anthony  advanced;  but  Denis  stood  rooted  to 
the  ground;  on  perceiving  which,  the  former 
sternly  returned  a step  or  two,  and  catching  him 
by  the  arm  with  an  admonitory  grip,  that  could 
not  easily  be  misunderstood,  compelled  him  to 
proceed  with  himself  step  by  step  to  the  table. 
Denis,  however,  could  feel  the  strong  man  trem- 
ble, and  perceive  that  although  he  strove  to  lash 
himself  into  the  energy  of  despair,  and  the  utter 
disbelief  of  all  religious  sanction,  yet  the  trial 
before  him  called  every  slumbering  prejudice 
and  apprehension  of  his  mind  into  active  power. 
This  was  a death-blow  to  his  own  resolution,  or, 
rather  it  confirmed  him  in  his  previous  determina- 
tion not  to  swear  on  the  Donagh,  except  to  ac- 
knowledge his  guilt,  which  he  could  scarcely  pre- 
vent himself  from  doing,  such  was  the  vacillating 
state  of  mind  to  which  he  felt  himself  reduced. 

When  Anthony  reached  the  table,  his  huge 
form  seemed  to  dilate  by  his  effort  at  maintaining 
the  firmness  necessary  to  support  him  in  this 
awful  struggle  between  conscience  and  supersti- 
tion on  the  one  hand,  and  guilt,  habit,  and  infi- 
delity, on  the  other.  He  fixed  his  deep,  dilated 
eyes  upon  the  Donagh,  in  a manner  that  be- 
tokened somewhat  of  irresolution:  his  counte- 
nance fell;  his  colour  came  and  went,  but  eventu- 
ally settled  in  a flushed  red;  his  powerful  hands 
and  arms  trembled  so  much,  that  he  folded  them 
to  prevent  his  agitation  from  being  noticed:  the 
grimness  of  his  face  ceased  to  be  stern,  while  it 


40 


IRELAND 


retained  the  blank  expression  of  guilt ; his  temples 
swelled  out  with  the  terrible  play  of  their  blood- 
vessels, his  chest,  too,  heaved  up  and  down  with 
the  united  pressure  of  guilt,  and  the  tempest 
which  shook  him  within.  At  length  he  saw 
Denis’s  eye  upon  him,  and  his  passions  took  a 
new  direction ; he  knit  his  brows  at  him  with  more 
than  usual  fierceness,  ground  his  teeth,  and  with 
a step  and  action  of  suppressed  fury,  he  placed 
his  foot  at  the  edge  of  the  table,  and  bowing  down 
under  the  eye  of  God  and  man,  took  the  awful 
oath  on  the  mysterious  Donagh,  in  a falsehood! 
When  it  was  finished,  a feeble  groan  broke  from 
his  brother’s  lips.  Anthony  bent  his  eye  on  him 
with  a deadly  glare;  but  Denis  saw  it  not.  The 
shock  was  beyond  his  courage, — he  had  become 
insensible. 

Those  who  stood  at  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd, 
seeing  Denis  apparently  lifeless,  thought  he  must 
have  sworn  falsely  on  the  Donagh,  and  ex- 
claimed, “ He’s  dead!  gracious  God!  Denis 
Meehan’s  struck  dead  by  the  Donagh!  He 
swore  in  a lie,  and  is  now  a corpse!  ” Anthony 
paused,  and  calmly  surveyed  him  as  he  lay  with 
his  head  resting  upon  the  hands  of  those  who  sup- 
ported him.  At  this  moment  a silent  breeze  came 
over  where  they  stood;  and,  as  the  Donagh  lay 
upon  the  table,  the  black  ribbons  with  which  it 
was  ornamented  fluttered  with  a melancholy 
appearance,  that  deepened  the  sensations  of  the 
people  into  something  peculiarly  solemn  and 
preternatural.  Denis  at  length  revived,  and 
stared  wildly  and  vacantly  about  him.  When 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


41 


composed  sufficiently  to  distinguish  and  recog- 
nise individual  objects,  he  looked  upon  the 
gloomy  visage  and  threatening  eye  of  his  brother, 
and  shrunk  back  with  a terror  almost  epileptical. 
“ Oh!  ” he  exclaimed,  “ save  me!  save  me  from 
that  man,  and  I’ll  discover  all!  ” 

Anthony  calmly  f olded  one  arm  into  his  bosom, 
and  his  lip  quivered  with  the  united  influence  of 
hatred  and  despair. 

“ Hould  him!”  shrieked  a voice,  which  pro- 
ceeded from  his  daughter,  “ hould  my  father,  or 
he’ll  murdher  him!  Oh!  oh!  merciful  Heaven!  ” 

Ere  the  words  w^ere  uttered,  she  had  made  an 
attempt  to  clasp  the  arms  of  her  parent,  whose 
motions  she  understood;  but  only  in  time  to  re- 
ceive from  the  pistol  which  he  had  concealed  in 
his  breast,  the  bullet  aimed  at  her  uncle!  She 
tottered!  and  the  blood  spouted  out  of  her  neck 
upon  her  father’s  brows,  who  hastily  put  up  his 
hand  and  wiped  it  away,  for  it  had  actually 
blinded  him. 

The  elder  Meehan  was  a tall  man,  and  as  he 
stood,  elevated  nearly  a head  above  the  crowd, 
his  grim  brows  red  with  his  daughter’s  blood — 
which,  in  attempting  to  wipe  away,  he  had 
deeply  streaked  across  his  face — his  eyes  shooting 
fiery  gleams  of  his  late  resentment,  mingled  with 
the  wildness  of  unexpected  horror — as  he  thus 
stood,  it  would  be  impossible  to  contemplate  a 
more  revolting  picture  of  that  state  to  which  the 
principles  that  had  regulated  his  life  must  ulti- 
mately lead,  even  in  this  world. 

On  perceiving  what  he  had  done,  the  deep 


42 


IRELAND 


working  of  his  powerful  frame  was  struck  into 
sudden  stillness,  and  he  turned  his  eyes  on  his 
bleeding  daughter,  with  a fearful  perception  of 
her  situation.  Now  was  the  harvest  of  his  creed 
and  crimes  reaped  in  blood;  and  he  felt  that  the 
stroke  which  had  fallen  upon  him  was  one  of 
those  by  which  God  will  sometimes  bare  his  arm 
and  vindicate  his  justice.  The  reflection,  how- 
ever, shook  him  not : the  reality  of  his  misery  was 
too  intense  and  pervading,  and  grappled  too 
strongly  with  his  hardened  and  unbending  spirit, 
to  waste  its  power  upon  a nerve  or  a muscle.  It 
was  abstracted,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  bodily 
suffering.  From  the  moment  his  daughter  fell, 
he  moved  not:  his  lips  were  half  open  with  the 
conviction  produced  by  the  blasting  truth  of  her 
death,  eff  ected  prematurely  by  his  own  hand. 

Those  parts  of  his  face  which  had  not  been 
stained  with  her  blood  assumed  an  ashy  paleness, 
and  rendered  his  countenance  more  terrific  by  the 
contrast.  Tall,  powerful,  and  motionless,  he  ap- 
peared to  the  crowd,  glaring  at  the  girl  like  a 
tiger  anxious  to  join  his  offspring,  yet  stunned 
with  the  shock  of  the  bullet  which  has  touched  a 
vital  part.  His  iron-gray  hair,  as  it  fell  in  thick 
masses  about  his  neck,  was  moved  slightly  by  the 
blast,  and  a lock  which  fell  over  his  temple  was 
blown  back  with  a motion  rendered  more  distinct 
by  his  statue-like  attitude,  immovable  as  death. 

A silent  and  awful  gathering  of  the  people 
around  this  impressive  scene,  intimated  their 
knowledge  of  what  they  considered  to  be  a judi- 
cial punishment  annexed  to  perjury  upon  the 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


43 


Donagh.  This  relic  lay  on  the  table,  and  the 
eyes  of  those  who  stood  within  view  of  it,  turned 
from  Anthony’s  countenance  to  it,  and  again 
back  to  his  blood-stained  visage,  with  all  the  over- 
whelming influence  of  superstitious  fear.  Shud- 
derings,  tremblings,  crossings,  and  ejaculations, 
marked  their  conduct  and  feeling;  for  though  the 
incident  in  itself  was  simply  a fatal  and  uncom- 
mon one,  yet  they  considered  it  supernatural  and 
miraculous. 

At  length  a loud  and  agonizing  cry  burst  from 
the  lips  of  Meehan — “ Oh,  God! — God  of  heaven 
an’  earth! — have  I murdhered  my  daughter?  ” 
and  he  cast  down  the  fatal  weapon  with  a force 
which  buried  it  some  inches  into  the  wet  clay. 

The  crowd  had  closed  upon  Anne ; but  with  the 
strength  of  a giant  he  flung  them  aside,  caught 
the  girl  in  his  arms,  and  pressed  her  bleeding  to 
his  bosom.  He  gasped  for  breath:  ‘‘Anne,” 

said  he,  “ Anne,  I am  without  hope,  an’  there’s 
none  to  forgive  me  except  you; — none  at  all: 
from  God,  to  the  poorest  of  his  creatures,  I am 
hated  an’  cursed  by  all,  except  you ! Don’t  curse 
me,  Anne;  don’t  curse  me!  Oh,  isn’t  it  enough, 
darlin’,  that  my  sowl  is  now  stained  with  your 
blood,  along  with  my  other  crimes?  In  hell,  on 
earth,  an’  in  heaven,  there’s  none  to  forgive  your 
father  but  yourself! — none!  none!  Oh,  what’s 
cornin’  over  me ! I’m  dizzy  an’  shiverin’ ! How 
cowld  the  day’s  got  of  a sudden!  Hould  up, 
avourneen  machree!  I was  a bad  man;  but  to 
you,  Anne,  I was  not  as  I was  to  every  one! 
Darlin’,  oh,  look  at  me  with  forgiveness  in  your 


44 


IRELAND 


eye,  or  any  way  don’t  curse  me!  Oh!  I’m  far 
CO  wider  now!  Tell  me  that  you  forgive  me, 
acushla  oge  macliree! — Manim  asihee  hu,  ^ dar- 
lin’,  say  it.  I dar’n’t  look  to  God!  but  oh!  do 
you  say  the  forgivin’  word  to  your  father  before 
you  die!  ” 

“ Father,”  said  she,  “ I deserve  this — it’s  only 
just:  I had  plotted  with  that  divilish  Martin  to 
betray  them  all,  except  yourself,  an’  to  get  the 
reward ; an’  then  we  intended  to  go — an’ — live  at 
a distance — an’  in  wickedness — where  we — might 
not  be  known — ^he’s  at  our  house — let  him  be — 
secured.  F or  give  me,  father ; — you  said  so  often 
that  there  was  no  thmth  in  religion — that  I began 
to — think  so.  Oh ! — God ! have  mercy  upon 
me ! ” And  with  these  words  she  expired. 

Meehan’s  countenance,  on  hearing  this,  was 
overspread  with  a ghastly  look  of  the  most  deso- 
lating agony : he  staggered  back,  and  the  body  of 
his  daughter,  which  he  strove  to  hold,  would  have 
fallen  from  his  arms,  had  it  not  been  caught  by 
the  bystanders.  His  eye  sought  out  his  brother, 
but  not  in  resentment.  “ Oh ! she  died,  but  didn’t 
say  ‘ I FORGRTE  you!  ’ Denis,”  said  he,  “ Denis, 
bring  me  home — I’m  sick — very  sick — oh,  but  it’s 
cowld — everything’s  reeling — how  cowld — cowld 
it  is ! ” — and  as  he  uttered  the  last  words,  he  shud- 
dered, fell  down  in  a fit  of  apoplexy,  never  to  rise 
again;  and  the  bodies  of  his  daughter  and  him- 
self were  both  waked  and  buried  together. 

The  result  is  brief.  The  rest  of  the  gang  were 
secured:  Denis  became  approver,  by  whose  evi- 
dence they  suffered  that  punishment  decreed  by 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


45 


law  to  the  crimes  of  which  they  had  been  guilty. 
The  two  events  which  we  have  just  related,  of 
course  added  to  the  supernatural  fear  and  rever- 
ence previously  entertained  for  this  terrible  relic. 
It  is  still  used  as  an  ordeal  of  expurgation,  in 
cases  of  stolen  property;  and  we  are  not  wrong 
in  asserting,  that  many  of  those  misguided  crea- 
tures, who  too  frequently  hesitate  not  to  swear 
falsely  on  the  Word  of  God,  would  suffer  death 
itself  sooner  than  commit  a perjury  on  the 
Donagh.® 


PHIL  PURCEL  THE  PIG  DRIVER 

Phil  Purcel  was  a singular  character,  for  he 
was  never  married;  but  notwithstanding  his  sin- 
gularity, no  man  ever  possessed,  for  practical 
purposes,  a more  plentiful  stock  of  duplicity. 
All  his  acquaintances  knew  that  Phil  was  a knave 
of  the  first  water,  yet  was  he  decidedly  a general 
favourite.  Now  as  we  hate  mystery  ourselves, 
we  shall  reveal  the  secret  of  this  remarkable  pop- 
ularity ; though,  after  all,  it  can  scarcely  be  called 
so,  for  Phil  was  not  the  first  cheat  who  has  been 
popular  in  his  day.  The  cause  of  his  success  lay 
simply  in  this ; — that  he  never  laughed ; and  none 
of  our  readers  need  be  told,  that  the  appearance 
of  a grave  cheat  in  Ireland  is  an  originality  which 
almost  runs  up  into  a miracle.  This  gravity  in- 
duced every  one  to  look  upon  him  as  a phenom- 
enon. The  assumed  simplicity  of  his  manners 
was  astonishing,  and  the  ignorance  which  he 
feigned,  so  apparently  natural,  that  it  was 
scarcely  possible  for  the  most  keen-sighted 
searcher  into  human  motives  to  detect  him.  The 
only  way  of  understanding  the  man  was  to  deal 
with  him:  if,  after  that,,  you  did  not  comprehend 
him  thoroughly,  the  fault  was  not  PhiFs,  but  your 
own.  Although  not  mirthful  himself,  he  was  the 
cause  of  mirth  in  others;  for,  without  ever  smil- 
ing at  his  own  gains,  he  contrived  to  make  others 

46 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


47 


laugh  at  their  losses.  His  disposition,  setting 
aside  laughter , was  strictly  anomalous.  The 
most  incompatible,  the  most  unamalgamatible, 
and  the  most  uncomeatable  qualities  that  ever  re- 
fused to  unite  in  the  same  individual,  had  no 
scruple  at  all  to  unite  in  Phil.  But  we  hate 
metaphysics,  which  we  leave  to  the  mechanical 
philosophers,  and  proceed  to  state  that  Phil  was  a 
miser,  which  is  the  best  explanation  we  can  give 
of  his  gravity. 

Ireland,  owing  to  the  march  of  intellect,  and 
the  superiority  of  modern  refinement,  has  been 
for  some  years  past,  and  is  at  present,  well  sup- 
plied with  an  abundant  variety  of  professional 
men,  every  one  of  whom  will  undertake,  for 
proper  considerations,  to  teach  us,  Irish,  all  man- 
ner of  useful  accomplishments.  The  drawing- 
master  talks  of  his  profession ; the  dancing-master 
of  his  profession;  the  fiddler,  tooth-drawer,  and 
corn-cutter,  (who,  by  the  way,  reaps  a richer  har- 
vest than  we  do,  since  the  devil  has  tempted  the 
schoolmaster  to  go  abroad,  are  all  practising  in 
his  absence,  as  professional  men. 

Now  Phil  must  be  included  among  this  class 
of  grandiloquent  gentlemen,  for  he  entered  life 
as  a Professor  of  Pig-driving;  and  it  is  but  jus- 
tice towards  him  to  assert,  that  no  corn-cutter  of 
them  all  ever  elevated  his  profession  so  high  as 
Phil  did  that  in  which  he  practised.  In  fact,  he 
raised  it  to  the  most  exalted  pitch  of  improve-  | 
ment  of  which  it  was  then  susceptible ; or  to  use ' 
the  cant  of  the  day,  he  soon  arrived  at  “ the  head 
of  his  profession.” 


48 


IRELAND 


In  Phil’s  time,  however,  pig-driving  was  not 
so  general,  nor  had  it  made  such  rapid  advances 
as  in  modern  times.  It  was,  then,  simply  pig- 
driving, unaccompanied  by  the  improvements  of 
poverty,  sickness,  and  famine.  Political  econ- 
omy had  not  then  taught  the  people  how  to  be 
poor  upon  the  most  scientific  principles;  free 
trade  had  not  shown  the  nation  the  most  approved 
plan  of  reducing  itself  to  the  lowest  possible  state 
of  distress;  nor  liberalism  enabled  the  working 
classes  to  scoff  at  religion,  and  wisely  to  stop  at 
the  very  line  that  lies  between  outrage  and  re- 
bellion. Many  errors  and  inconveniences,  now 
happily  exploded,  were  then  in  existence.  The 
people,  it  is  true,  were  somewhat  attached  to  their 
landlords,  but  still  they  were  burdened  with  the 
unnecessary  appendages  of  good  coats  and  stout 
shoes;  were  tolerably  industrious,  and  had  the 
mortification  of  being  able  to  pay  their  rents,  and 
feed  in  comfort.  They  were  not,  as  they  are 
now,  free  from  new  coats  and  old  prejudices,  nor 
improved  by  the  intellectual  march  of  politics  and 
poverty.  When  either  a man  or  a nation  starves, 
it  is  a luxury  to  starve  in  an  enlightened  man- 
ner ; and  nothing  is  more  consolatory  to  a person 
acquainted  with  public  rights  and  constitutional 
privileges,  than  to  understand  those  liberal  prin- 
ciples upon  which  he  fasts  and  goes  naked. 

From  all  we  have  said,  the  reader  sees  clearly 
that  pig-driving  did  not  then  proceed  upon  so 
extensive  a scale  as  it  does  at  present.  The  peo- 
ple, in  fact,  killed  many  of  them  for  their  own 
use;  and  we  know  not  how  it  happened,  but  po- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


49 


litical  ignorance  and  good  bacon  kept  them  in 
more  flesh  and  comfort  than  those  theories  which 
have  since  succeeded  so  well  in  introducing  the 
science  of  starvation  as  the  basis  of  national  pros- 
perity. Irishmen  are  frequently  taxed  with  ex- 
travagance, in  addition  to  their  other  taxes;  but 
we  should  be  glad  to  know  what  people  in 
Europe  reduce  economy  in  the  articles  of  food 
and  clothing  to  such  close  practice  as  they  do. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  there  was,  in  Ireland,  an  old 
breed  of  swine,  which  is  now  nearly  extinct,  ex- 
cept in  some  remote  parts  of  the  country,  where 
they  are  still  useful  in  the  hunting  season,  par- 
ticularly if  dogs  happen  to  be  scarce.  ^ They 
were  a tall,  loose  species,  with  legs  of  an  unusual 
length,  with  no  flesh,  short  ears,  as  if  they  had 
been  cropped  for  sedition,  and  with  long  faces  of 
a highly  intellectual  cast.  They  were  also  of 
such  activity  that  few  greyhounds  could  clear  a 
ditch  or  cross  a fleld  with  more  agility  or  speed. 
Their  backs  formed  a rainbow  arch,  capable  of 
being  contracted  or  extended  to  an  inconceivable 
degree ; and  their  usual  rate  of  travelling  in  droves 
was  at  mail-coach  speed,  or  eight  Irish  miles  an 
hour,  preceded  by  an  outrider  to  clear  the  way, 
whilst  their  rear  was  brought  up  by  another  horse- 
man, going  at  a three-quarter  gallop. 

In  the  middle  of  summer,  when  all  nature 
reposed  under  the  united  influence  of  heat  and 
dust,  it  was  an  interesting  sight  to  witness  a drove 
of  them  sweeping  past,  like  a whirlwind,  in  a 
cloud  of  their  own  raising ; their  sharp  and 

lengthy  outlines  dimly  visible  through  the  shining 
III— 4 


50  IRELAND 

haze,  like  a flock  of  antelopes  crossing  the  deserts 
of  the  East. 

But  alas!  for  those  happy  days!  This  breed 
is  now  a curiosity — few  specimens  of  it  remaining 
except  in  the  mountainous  parts  of  the  country, 
whither  these  lovers  of  liberty,  like  the  free  na- 
tives of  the  back  settlements  of  America,  have 
retired  to  avoid  the  encroachments  of  civilization, 
and  exhibit  their  Irish  antipathy  to  the  slavish 
comforts  of  steam-boat  navigation,  and  the  re- 
laxing luxuries  of  English  feeding. 

Indeed,  their  patriotism,  as  evinced  in  an  at- 
tachment to  Ireland  and  Irish  habits,  was  scarcely 
more  remarkable  than  their  sagacity.  There  is 
not  an  antiquary  among  the  members  of  that 
learned  and  useful  body,  the  Irish  Academy, 
who  can  boast  such  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the 
Irish  language  in  all  its  shades  of  meaning  and 
idiomatic  beauty,  as  did  this  once  flourishing  class 
of  animals.  Nor  were  they  confined  to  the 
Irish  tongue  alone,  many  of  them  understood 
English  too;  and  it  was  said  of  those  that  be- 
longed to  a convent,  the  members  of  which,  in 
their  intercourse  with  each  other,  spoke  only  in 
Latin,  that  they  were  tolerable  masters  of  that 
language,  and  refused  to  leave  a potato  field  or 
plot  of  cabbages,  except  when  addressed  in  it. 
To  the  English  tongue,  however,  they  had  a deep- 
rooted  antipathy;  whether  it  proceeded  from  the 
national  feeling,  or  the  fact  of  its  not  being 
sufficiently  guttural,  I cannot  say:  but  be  this  as 
it  may,  it  must  be  admitted  that  they  were  ex- 
cellent Irish  scholars,  and  paid  a surprising  de- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


51 


gree  of  deference  and  obedience  to  whatever  was 
addressed  to  them  in  their  own  language.  In 
Munster,  too,  such  of  them  as  belonged  to  the 
hedge-schoolmasters  were  good  proficients  in 
Latin;  hut  it  is  on  a critical  knowledge  of  their 
native  tongue  that  I take  my  stand.  On  this 
point  they  were  unrivalled  by  the  most  learned 
pigs  or  antiquaries  of  their  day;  none  of  either 
class  possessing,  at  that  period,  such  a knowledge 
of  Irish  manners,  nor  so  keen  a sagacity  in  tra- 
cing out  Irish  roots. 

Their  education,  it  is  true,  was  not  neglected, 
and  their  instructors  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
that  it  was  not  lost.  Nothing  could  present  a 
finer  display  of  true  friendship  founded  upon  a 
sense  of  equality,  mutual  interest,  and  good-will, 
than  the  Irishman  and  his  pig.  The  Arabian  and 
his  horse  are  proverbial;  but  had  our  English 
neighbours  known  as  much  of  Ireland  as  they 
did  of  Arabia,  they  would  have  found  as  signal 
instances  of  attachment  subsisting  between  the 
former  as  between  the  latter;  and,  perhaps,  when 
the  superior  comforts  of  an  Arabian  hut  are  con- 
trasted with  the  squahd  poverty  of  an  Irish  cabin, 
they  would  have  perceived  a heroism  and  a disin- 
terestedness evinced  by  the  Irish  parties,  that 
would  have  struck  them  with  greater  admiration. 

The  pigs,  however,  of  the  present  day  are  a 
fat,  gross,  and  degenerate  breed;  and  more  like 
well-fed  aldermen,  than  Irish  pigs  of  the  old 
school.  They  are,  in  fact,  a proud,  lazy,  carnal 
race,  entirely  of  the  earth,  earthy.  John  Bull 
assures  us  it  is  one  comfort,  however,  that  we  do 


52 


IRELAND 


not  eat,  but  ship  them  out  of  the  country;  yet, 
after  all,  with  great  respect  to  John,  it  is  not 
surprising  that  we  should  repine  a little  on  think- 
ing of  the  good  old  times  of  sixty  years  since, 
when  every  Irishman  could  kill  his  own  pig,  and 
eat  it  when  he  pleased.  We  question  much 
whether  any  measure  that  might  make  the  eating 
of  meat  compulsory  upon  us,  would  experience 
from  Irishmen  a very  decided  opposition.  But 
it  is  very  condescending  in  John  to  eat  our  beef 
and  mutton;  and  as  he  happens  to  want  both,  it 
is  particularly  disinterested  in  him  to  encourage 
us  in  the  practice  of  self-denial.  It  is  possible, 
however,  that  we  may  ultimately  refuse  to  ban- 
quet by  proxy  on  our  own  provisions;  and  that 
John  may  not  be  much  longer  troubled  to  eat  for 
us  in  that  capacity. 

The  education  of  an  Irish  pig,  at  the  time  of 
which  we  write,  was  an  important  consideration 
to  an  Irishman.  He,  and  his  family,  and  his 
pig,  like  the  Arabian  and  his  horse,  all  slept  in 
the  same  bed;  the  pig  generally,  for  the  sake  of 
convenience,  next  the  “ stock.”  ® At  meals  the 
pig  usually  was  stationed  at  the  scrahag,  or  po- 
tato-basket; where  the  only  instances  of  bad 
temper  he  ever  displayed  broke  out  in  petty  and 
unbecoming  squabbles  with  the  younger  branches 
of  the  family.  Indeed,  if  he  ever  descended 
from  his  high  station  as  a member  of  the  domestic 
circle,  it  was  upon  these  occasions,  when,  with  a 
want  of  dignity,  accounted  for  only  by  the 
grovelling  motive  of  self-interest,  he  embroiled 
himself  in  a series  of  miserable  feuds  and  con- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


53 


tentions  about  scraping  the  pot,  or  carrying  off 
from  the  jealous  urchins  about  him  more  than 
came  to  his  share.  In  these  heart-burnings  about 
the  good  things  of  this  world,  he  w^as  treated  with 
uncommon  forbearance:  in  his  owner  he  always 
had  a friend,  from  whom,  when  he  grunted  out 
his  appeal  to  him  he  was  certain  of  receiving 
redress:  “Barney,  behave,  avick:  lay  down  the 
potstick,  an’  don’t  be  batin’  the  pig,  the  crathur.” 
In  fact,  the  pig  w^as  never  mentioned  but  with 
this  endearing  epithet  of  “ crathur  ” annexed. 
“ Barney,  go  an’  call  home  the  pig,  the  crathur, 
to  his  dinner,  before  it  gets  cowld  an  him.” 
“ Barney,  go  an’  see  if  you  can  see  the  pig,  the 
crathur,  his  buckwhist  will  soon  be  ready.” 
“ Barney,  run  an’  dhrive  the  pig,  the  crathur,  out 
of  Larry  Neil’s  phatie-field : an’,  Barney,  whis- 
per, a bouchal  bawn,  don’t  run  too  hard,  Barney, 
for  fraid  you’d  lose  your  breath.  What  if  the 
crathur  does  get  a taste  o’  the  new  phaties — small 
blame  to  him  for  the  same ! ” 

In  short,  whatever  might  have  been  the  habits 
of  the  family,  such  were  those  of  the  pig.  The 
latter  was  usually  out  early  in  the  morning  to 
take  exercise,  and  the  unerring  regularity  with 
wLich  he  returned  at  meal-time,  gave  sufficient 
proof  that  procuring  an  appetite  was  a work  of 
supererogation  on  his  part.  If  he  came  before 
the  meal  was  prepared,  his  station  was  at  the  door, 
which  they  usually  shut  to  keep  him  out  of  the 
way  until  it  should  be  ready.  In  the  meantime, 
so  far  as  a forenoon  serenade  and  an  indifferent 
voice  could  go,  his  powers  of  melody  were  freely 


54 


IRELAXD 


exercised  on  the  outside.  But  he  did  not  stop 
here:  every  stretch  of  ingenuity  was  tried  by 
which  a possibility  of  gaining  admittance  could 
be  established.  The  hat  and  rags  were  repeat- 
edly driven  in  from  the  windows,  which  from 
practice  and  habit  he  was  enabled  to  approach  on 
his  hind  legs ; a cavity  was  also  worn  by  the  fre- 
quent grubbings  of  his  snout  under  the  door,  the 
lower  part  of  which  was  broken  away  by  the  sheer 
strength  of  his  tusks,  so  that  he  was  enabled,  by 
thrusting  himself  between  the  bottom  of  it  and 
the  ground,  to  make  a most  unexpected  appear- 
ance on  the  hearth,  before  his  presence  was  at  all 
convenient  or  acceptable. 

But,  independently  of  these  two  modes  of  en- 
trance, i.  e.  the  door  and  window,  there  \vas  also 
a third,  by  which  he  sometimes  scrupled  not  to 
make  a descent  upon  the  family.  This  was  by 
the  chimney.  There  are  many  of  the  Irish  cabins 
built  for  economy’s  sake  against  slopes  in  the 
ground,  so  that  the  labour  of  erecting  either  a 
gable  or  side-wall  is  saved  by  the  perpendicular 
bank  that  remains  after  the  site  of  the  house  is 
scooped  away.  Of  the  facihties  presented  by 
this  peculiar  structure,  the  pig  never  failed  to 
avail  himself.  He  immediately  mounted  the 
roof  (through  wliich,  however,  he  sometimes 
took  an  unexpected  flight),  and  traversing 
it  with  caution,  reached  the  chimney,  into  which 
he  deliberately  hacked  himself,  and,  with  no 
small  share  of  courage,  went  down  precisely  as 
the  northern  bears  are  said  to  descend  the  trunks 


ithk  //  b giT  .&fij 

'■)’  ■!}  i:oiU1^nO  5t&.4«0.\ 


rt.’  Qd 


Giving  the  Pig  a Warm  Reception 

Etching  from  an  Original  Drawing  by  Wrightson 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  55 

of  trees  during  the  winter,  but  with  far  different 
motives. 

In  this  manner  he  cautiously  retrograded 
downwards  with  a hardihood  which  set  furze 
bushes,  brooms,  tongs,  and  all  other  available 
weapons  of  the  cabin  at  defiance.  We  are  bound, 
however,  to  declare,  that  this  mode  of  entrance, 
which  was  only  resorted  to  when  every  other 
failed,  was  usually  received  by  the  cottager  and 
his  family  with  a degree  of  mirth  and  good-hu- 
mour that  were  not  lost  upon  the  sagacity  of  the 
pig.  In  order  to  save  him  from  being  scorched, 
which  he  deserved  for  his  temerity,  they  usually 
received  him  in  a creel,  often  in  a quilt,  and 
sometimes  in  the  tattered  blanket,  or  large  pot, 
out  of  which  he  looked  with  a humorous  con- 
ception of  his  own  enterprise,  that  was  highly 
diverting.  We  must  admit,  however,  that  he  was 
sometimes  received  with  the  comforts  of  a hot 
poker,  which  Paddy  pleasantly  called,  “ givin’ 
him  a warm  welcome.” 

Another  trait  in  the  character  of  these  animals, 
was  the  utter  scorn  with  which  they  treated  all 
attempts  to  fatten  them.  In  fact,  the  usual  con- 
sequences of  good  feeding  were  almost  inverted 
in  their  case;  and  although  I might  assert  that 
they  became  leaner  in  proportion  to  what  they 
received,  yet  I must  confine  myself  to  truth,  by 
stating  candidly  that  this  was  not  the  fact;  that 
there  was  a certain  state  of  fleshlessness  to  which 
they  arrived,  but  from  which  they  neither  ad- 
vanced nor  receded  by  good  f eeding  or  bad. 


56 


IRELAND 


At  this  point,  despite  of  all  human  ingenuity, 
they  remained  stationary  for  life,  received  the 
bounty  afforded  them  with  a greatness  of  appe- 
tite resembling  the  fortitude  of  a brave  man, 
which  rises  in  energy  according  to  the  magnitude 
of  that  which  it  has  to  encounter.  The  truth  is, 
they  were  scandalous  hypocrites;  for  with  the 
most  prodigious  capacity  for  food,  they  were 
spare  as  philosophers,  and  fitted  evidently  more 
for  the  chase  than  the  sty;  rather  to  run  down 
a buck  or  a hare  for  the  larder,  than  to  have  a 
place  in  it  themselves.  If  you  starved  them, 
they  defied  you  to  diminish  their  flesh ; and  if  you 
stuffed  them  like  aldermen,  they  took  all  they 
got,  but  disdained  to  carry  a single  ounce  more 
than  if  you  gave  them  whey  thickened  with 
water.  In  short,  they  gloried  in  maceration  and 
liberty;  were  good  Irish  scholars,  sometimes  ac- 
quainted with  Latin;  and  their  flesh,  after  the 
trouble  of  separating  it  from  a superfluity  of 
tough  skin,  was  excellent  venison  so  far  as  it 
went. 

Now  Phil  Purcel,  whom  we  will  introduce  more 
intimately  to  the  reader  by  and  by,  was  the  son  of 
a man  who  always  kept  a pig.  His  father’s 
house  had  a small  loft,  to  which  the  ascent  was 
by  a step-ladder  through  a door  in  the  inside 
gable.  The  first  good  thing  ever  Phil  was 
noticed  for  he  said  upon  the  following  occasion. 
His  father  happened  to  be  called  upon,  one 
morning  before  breakfast,  by  his  landlord,  who 
it  seems  occasionally  visited  his  tenantry  to  en- 
courage, direct,  stimulate,  or  reprove  them,  as 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


57 


the  case  might  require.  Phil  was  a boy  then,  and 
sat  on  the  hob  in  the  corner,  eyeing  the  landlord 
and  his  father  during  their  conversation.  In  the 
mean  time  the  pig  came  in,  and  deliberately  began 
to  ascend  the  ladder  with  an  air  of  authority  that 
marked  him  as  one  in  the  exercise  of  an  estab- 
lished right.  The  landlord  was  astonished  at  see- 
ing the  animal  enter  the  best  room  in  the  house, 
and  could  not  help  expressing  his  surprise  to  old 
Purcel : 

“ Why,  Purcel,  is  your  pig  in  the  habit  of 
treating  himself  to  the  comforts  of  your  best 
room?  ” 

“ The  pig  is  it,  the  crathur?  Why,  your 
haner,”  said  Purcel,  after  a little  hesitation,  “ it 
sometimes  goes  up  of  a mornin’  to  waken  the 
childhre,  particularly  when  the  buckwhist  hap- 
pens to  be  late.  It  doesn’t  like  to  be  waitin’ ; and 
sure  none  of  us  likes  to  be  kept  from  the  male’s 
mate,  your  haner,  when  we  want  it,  no  more  than 
it,  the  crathur!  ” 

“ But  I wonder  your  wife  permits  so  filthy  an 
animal  to  have  access  to  her  rooms  in  this  man- 
ner.” 

“ Filthy!  ” replied  Mrs.  Purcel,  who  felt  her- 
self called  upon  to  defend  the  character  of  the 
pig,  as  well  as  her  own,  “ why,  one  would  think. 
Sir,  that  any  crathur  that’s  among  Christyen 
childhre,  like  one  o’  themselves,  couldn’t  be  filthy. 
I could  take  it  to  my  dyin’  day,  that  there’s  not 
a claner  or  dacenter  pig  in  the  kingdom,  than 
the  same  pig.  It  never  misbehaves,  the  crathur, 
but  goes  out,  as  wise  an’  riglar,  jist  by  a look,  an’ 


58 


IRELAND 


that’s  enough  for  it,  any  day — a single  look, 
your  haner,  the  poor  crathur!  ” 

“ I think,”  observed  Phil,  from  the  hob,  “ that 
nobody  has  a betther  right  to  the  run  of  the  house, 
whedher  up  stairs  or  down  stairs,  than  him  that 
pays  the  rint!^ 

“ Well  said,  my  lad!”  observed  the  landlord, 
laughing  at  the  quaint  ingenuity  of  Phil’s  de- 
fence. “ His  payment  of  the  rent  is  the  best 
defence  possible,  and  no  doubt  should  cover  a 
multitude  of  his  errors.” 

“ A multitude  of  his  shins  you  mane.  Sir,” 
said  Phil,  ‘‘  for  thrath  he’s  all  shin.” 

In  fact,  Phil  from  his  infancy  had  an  uncom- 
mon attachment  to  these  animals,  and  by  a mind 
naturally  shrewd  and  observing,  made  himself  as 
intimately  acquainted  with  their  habits  and  in- 
stincts, and  the  best  modes  of  managing  them, 
as  ever  the  celebrated  Cahir  na  Cappul  ^ did  with 
those  of  the  horse.  Before  he  was  fifteen,  he 
could  drive  the  most  vicious  and  obstinate  pig 
as  quietly  before  him  as  a lamb;  yet  no  one  knew 
how,  nor  by  what  means  he  had  gained  the  secret 
that  enabled  him  to  do  it.  Whenever  he  attended 
a fair,  his  time  was  principally  spent  among  the 
pigs,  where  he  stood  handling,  and  examining, 
and  pretending  to  buy  them,  although  he  seldom 
had  half-a-crown  in  his  pocket.  At  length,  by 
hoarding  up  such  small  sums  as  he  could  possibly 
lay  his  hand  on,  he  got  together  the  price  of  a 
“ slip,”  which  he  bought,  reared,  and  educated  in 
a manner  that  did  his  ingenuity  great  credit. 
When  this  was  brought  to  its  ne  plus  ultra  of  fat- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


59 


ness,  he  sold  it,  and  purchased  two  more,  which  he 
fed  in  the  same  way.  On  disposing  of  these,  he 
made  a fresh  purchase,  and  thus  proceeded,  until, 
in  the  course  of  a few  years,  he  was  a well-known 
pig- jobber. 

Phil’s  journeys  as  a pig-driver  to  the  leading 
sea-port  towns  nearest  him,  were  always  partic- 
ularly profitable.  In  Ireland  swine  are  not  kept 
in  sties,  as  they  are  among  English  feeders,  but 
permitted  to  go  at  liberty  through  pasture  fields, 
commons,  and  along  roadsides,  where  they  make 
up  as  well  as  they  can  for  the  scanty  pittance 
allowed  them  at  home  during  meal-times.  We  do 
not,  however,  impeach  Phil’s  honesty ; but  simply 
content  ourselves  with  saying,  that  when  his 
journey  was  accomplished,  he  mostly  found  the 
original  number  with  which  he  had  set  out  in- 
creased by  three  or  four,  and  sometimes  by  half- 
a-dozen.  Pigs  in  general  resemble  each  other, 
and  it  surely  was  not  Phil’s  fault  if  a stray  one, 
feeding  on  the  roadside  or  common,  thought 
proper  to  join  his  drove  and  see  the  world. 
Phil’s  object,  we  presume,  was  only  to  take  care 
that  his  original  number  was  not  diminished,  its 
increase  being  a matter  in  which  he  felt  little  con- 
cern. 

He  now  determined  to  take  a professional  trip 
to  England,  and  that  this  might  be  the  more  pro- 
ductive, he  resolved  to  purchase  a lot  of  the  ani- 
mals we  have  been  describing.  No  time  was  lost 
in  this  speculation.  The  pigs  were  bought  up 
as  cheaply  as  possible,  and  Phil  set  out,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  to  try  with  what  success  he 


60 


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could  measure  his  skill  against  that  of  a York- 
shireman.  On  this  occasion,  he  brought  with  him 
a pet,  which  he  had  with  considerable  pains 
trained  up  for  purposes  hereafter  to  be  ex- 
plained. 

There  was  nothing  remarkable  in  the  passage, 
unless  that  every  creature  on  board  was  sea-sick, 
except  the  pigs;  even  to  them,  however,  the 
change  was  a disagreeable  one;  for  to  be  pent 
up  in  the  hold  of  a ship  was  a deprivation  of 
liberty,  which,  fresh  as  they  were  from  their  na- 
tive hills,  they  could  not  relish.  They  felt,  there- 
fore, as  patriots,  a loss  of  freedom,  but  not  a 
whit  of  appetite;  for,  in  truth,  of  the  latter  no 
possible  vicissitude  short  of  death  could  deprive 
them. 

Phil,  however,  with  an  assumed  air  of  sim- 
plicity absolutely  stupid,  disposed  of  them  to  a 
Yorkshire  dealer,  at  about  twice  the  value  they 
would  have  brought  in  Ireland,  though  as  pigs 
went  in  England  it  was  low  enough.  He  de- 
clared that  they  had  been  fed  on  tip-top  feeding; 
which  was  literally  true,  as  he  afterwards  ad- 
mitted that  the  tops  of  nettles  and  potato  stalks 
constituted  the  only  nourishment  they  had  got 
for  three  weeks  before. 

The  Y orkshireman  looked  with  great  contempt 
upon  what  he  considered  a miserable  essay  to 
take  him  in. 

“ What  a fule  this  Hirishmun  mun  bea;  ” said 
he,  “ to  think  to  teake  me  in!  Had  he  said  that 
them  there  Hirish  swoine  were  badly  feade,  I’d 
ha’  thought  it  fairish  enough  on  un;  but  to  seay 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


61 


that  they  was  oil  weal  feade  on  tip-top  feeadin’! 
Nea,  nea!  I knaws  weal  enough  that  they  was 
noat  feade  on  notliin’  at  oil,  which  meakes  them 
loak  so  poorish!  Howsomever,  I shall  fatten 
them,  I’se  warrant — I’se  warrant  I shall!  ” 
When  driven  home  to  sties  somewhat  more 
comfortable  than  the  cabins  of  unfortunate 
Irishmen,  they  were  well  supplied  with  food 
which  would  have  been  very  often  considered  a 
luxury  by  poor  Paddy  himself,  much  less  by  his 
pigs. 

“ Measter,”  said  the  man  who  had  seen  them 
fed,  “ them  there  Plirish  pigs  ha’  not  teasted 
nout  for  a moonth  yet:  they  feade  like  nout  I 
never  seed  o’  my  laifel!  ” 

“ Ay!  ay!  ” replied  the  master,  “ I’se  warrant 
they’ll  soon  fatten — I’se  warrant  they  shall, 
Hodge — they  be  praime  feeders — I’se  warrant 
they  shall;  and  then,  Hodge,  we’ve  bit  the  soft 
Hirishmun.” 

Hodge  gave  a knowing  look  at  his  master,  and 
grinned  at  this  observation. 

The  next  morning  Hodge  repaired  to  the  sties 
to  see  how  they  were  thriving;  when,  to  his  great 
consternation,  he  found  the  feeding-troughs 
clean  as  if  they  had  been  washed,  and  not  a 
single  Irish  pig  to  be  seen  or  heard  about  the 
premises;  but  to  what  retreat  the  animals  could 
have  betaken  themselves,  was  completely  beyond 
his  comprehension.  He  scratched  his  head,  and 
looked  about  him  in  much  perplexity : 

‘‘Dang  un!”  he  exclaimed,  “I  never  seed 
nout  like  this.” 


62 


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He  would  have  proceeded  in  a strain  of  cogita- 
tion equally  enlightened,  had  not  a noise  of  shout- 
ing, alarm,  and  confusion  in  the  neighbourhood, 
excited  his  attention.  He  looked  about  him,  and 
to  his  utter  astonishment  saw  that  some  extraor- 
dinary commotion  prevailed,  that  the  country 
was  up,  and  the  hills  alive  with  people,  who  ran^ 
and  shouted,  and  wheeled  at  full  flight  in  all 
possible  directions.  His  first  object  was  to  join 
the  crowd,  which  he  did  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
found  that  the  pigs  he  had  shut  up  the  preceding 
night  in  sties  whose  enclosures  were  at  least  four 
feet  high,  had  cleared  them  like  so  many  chamois, 
and  were  now  closely  pursued  by  the  neighbours, 
who  rose  en  masse  to  hunt  down  and  secure  such 
dreadful  depredators. 

The  waste  and  mischief  they  had  committed 
in  one  night  were  absolutely  astonishing.  Bean 
and  turnip  fields,  and  vegetable  enclosures  of  all 
descriptions,  kitchen-gardens,  corn-fields,  and 
even  flower-gardens,  were  rooted  up  and  de- 
stroyed with  an  appearance  of  system  which 
would  have  done  credit  to  Terry  Alt  himself. 

Their  speed  was  the  theme  of  every  tongue. 
Hedges  were  taken  in  their  flight,  and  cleared 
in  a style  that  occasioned  the  country  people  to 
turn  up  their  eyes,  and  scratch  their  heads  in 
wonder.  Dogs  of  all  degrees  bit  the  dust,  and 
were  caught  up  dead  in  stupid  amazement  by 
their  owners,  who  began  to  doubt  whether  or 
not  these  extraordinary  animals  were  swine  at 
all.  The  depredators  in  the  mean  time  had 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  G3 

adopted  the  Horatian  style  of  battle.  When- 
ever there  was  an  ungenerous  advantage  taken 
in  the  pursuit,  by  slipping  dogs  across  or  before 
their  path,  they  shot  off  at  a tangent  through 
the  next  crowd,  many  of  whom  they  prostrated 
in  their  flight;  by  this  means  they  escaped  the 
dogs  until  the  latter  were  somewhat  exhausted, 
when,  on  finding  one  in  advance  of  the  rest, 
they  turned,  and,  with  standing  bristles  and 
burning  tusks,  fatally  checked  their  pursuer  in 
his  full  career.  To  wheel  and  fly  until  another 
got  in  advance,  was  then  the  plan  of  fight;  but, 
in  fact,  the  conflict  was  conducted  on  the  part 
of  the  Irish  pigs  with  a fertility  of  expediency 
that  did  credit  to  their  country,  and  established 
for  those  who  displayed  it,  the  possession  of  in- 
tellect far  superior  to  that  of  their  opponents. 
The  pigs  now  began  to  direct  their  course  to- 
wards the  sties  in  which  they  had  been  so  well 
fed  the  night  before.  This  being  their  last 
flight,  they  radiated  towards  one  common  centre, 
with  a fierceness  and  celerity  that  occasioned 
the  women  and  children  to  take  shelter  within- 
doors. On  arriving  at  the  sties,  the  ease  with 
which  they  shot  themselves  over  the  four-feet 
walls  was  incredible.  The  farmer  had  caught 
the  alarm,  and  just  came  out  in  time  to  witness 
their  return ; he  stood  with  his  hands  driven  down 
into  the  pockets  of  his  red,  capacious  waistcoat, 
and  uttered  not  a word.  When  the  last  of  them 
came  bounding  into  the  stye,  Hodge  approached, 
quite  breathless  and  exhausted : 


64 


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“ Oh,  measter,”  he  exclaimed,  ‘‘  these  be  not 
Hirish  pigs  at  oil,  they  be  Hirish  deevils;  and 
yau  mun  ha’  bought  ’em  fra  a cunning  mon ! ” 

“ Hodge,”  replied  his  master,  “ I’se  be  bit — 
I’se  heard  feather  talk  about  un.  That  breed’s 
true  Hirish;  but  I’se  try  and  sell  ’em  to  Squoire 
Jolly  to  hunt  wi’  as  beagles,  for  he  wants  a pack. 
They  do  say  all  the  swoine  that  the  deevils  were 
put  into  ha’  been  drawned;  but  for  my  peart, 
I’se  sure  that  some  on  un  must  ha’  escaped  to 
Hireland.” 

Phil,  during  the  commotion  excited  by  his 
knavery  in  Yorkshire,  was  traversing  the  coun- 
try, in  order  to  dispose  of  his  remaining  pig;  and 
the  manner  in  which  he  effected  his  first  sale  of 
it  was  as  follows: — 

A gentleman  was  one  evening  standing  with 
some  labourers  by  the  wayside  when  a tattered 
Irishman,  equipped  in  a pair  of  white  dusty 
brogues,  stockings  without  feet,  old  patched 
breeches,  a bag  slung  across  his  shoulder,  his 
coarse  shirt  lying  open  about  a neck  tanned  by 
the  sun  into  a reddish  yellow,  a hat  nearly  the 
colour  of  the  shoes,  and  a hay  rope  tied  for  com- 
fort about  his  waist:  in  one  hand  he  also  held  a 
straw  rope,  that  depended  from  the  hind  leg  of 
a pig  which  he  drove  before  him;  in  the  other 
was  a cudgel,  by  the  assistance  of  which  he  con- 
trived to  limp  on  after  it,  his  two  shoulder-blades 
rising  and  falling  alternately  with  a shrugging 
motion  that  indicated  great  fatigue. 

When  he  came  opposite  where  the  gentleman 
stood  he  checked  the  pig,  which  instinctively 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


65 


commenced  feeding  upon  the  grass  by  the  edge 
of  the  road. 

“ Och/’  said  he,  wiping  his  brow  with  the  cuff 
of  his  coat,  mavrone  orth  a inuck/^  but  I’m 
kilt  wit  you.  Musha,  Gad  bless  yer  haner,  an’ 
maybe  ye’d  buy  a slip  of  a pig  fwhrom  me,  that 
has  my  heart  bruck,  so  she  has,  if  ever  any  body’s 
heart  was  bruck  wit  the  likes  of  her;  an’  sure 
so  there  was,  no  doubt,  or  I wouldn’t  be  as  I am 
wit  her.  I’ll  give  her  a dead  bargain.  Sir;  for 
it’s  only  to  get  her  aff  av  my  hands  I’m  wantin’, 
plase  yer  haner — liusth  amuck — husth,  a veeho- 
nee!  Be  asy,  an’  me  in  conwersation  wit  his 
haner  here!  ” 

“You  are  an  Irishman?  ” the  gentleman  in- 
quired. 

“ I am.  Sir,  from  Cannaught,  yer  haner,  an’ 
’ill  sell  the  crathur  dag  cheap,  all  out.  Asy,  you 
thief!” 

“ I don’t  want  the  pig,  my  good  fellow,”  re- 
plied the  Englishman,  without  evincing  curi- 
osity enough  to  inquire  how  he  came  to  have  such 
a commodity  for  sale. 

“ She’d  be  the  darlint  in  no  time  wit  you.  Sir; 
the  run  o’  your  kitchen  ’ud  make  her  up  a beauty, 
your  haner,  along  wit  no  throuble  to  the  sar- 
wints  about  sweepin’  it,  or  any  thing.  You’d 
only  have  to  lay  down  the  potato-basket  on  the 
flure,  or  the  misthress.  Gad  bless  her,  could  do 
it,  an’  not  lave  a crumblin’  behind  her,  besides 
sleepin’,  your  haner,  in  the  earner  beyant,  if 
she’d  take  the  throuble.” 

The  sluggish  phlegm  of  the  Englishman  was 
III— 5 


66 


IRELAND 


stirred  up  a little  by  the  twisted,  and  somewhat 
incomprehensible  nature  of  these  instructions. 

“ How  far  do  you  intend  to  proceed  to-night, 
Paddy?  ” said  he. 

“ The  sarra  one  o’  myself  knows,  plaze  yer 
haner:  sure  we’ve  an  ould  sayin’  of  our  own  in 
Ireland  beyant — ^that  he’s  a wise  man  can  tell 
how  far  he’ll  go.  Sir,  till  he  come  to  his  jour- 
ney’s ind.  I’ll  give  this  crathur  to  you  at  more 
nor  her  value,  yer  haner.” 

“ More ! — why  the  man  knows  not  what  he’s 
saying,”  observed  the  gentleman;  “ Zm  you 
mean,  I suppose,  Paddy?  ” 

“ More  or  less.  Sir:  you’ll  get  her  a bargain; 
an’  Gad  bless  you.  Sir!  ” 

But  it  is  a commodity  which  I don’t  want 
at  present.  I am  very  well  stocked  with  pigs,  as 
it  is.  Try  elsewhere.” 

“ She’d  flog  the  counthry  side.  Sir;  an’  if  the 
mishthress  herself.  Sir,  ’ud  shake  the  wishp  o’ 
sthraw  fwhor  her  in  the  kitchen.  Sir,  near  the 
whoire.  Yer  haner  could  spake  to  her  about  it; 
an’  in  no  time  put  a knife  in  her  whin  you  plazed. 
In  regard  o’  the  other  thing.  Sir — she’s  like  a 
Christyeen,  yer  haner,  an’  no  throuble,  Sir,  if 
you’d  be  seein’  company  or  any  thing.” 

“ It’s  an  extraordinary  pig,  this,  of  yours.” 
It’s  no  lie  fwhor  you.  Sir;  she’s  as  clane  an’ 
dacent  a crathur.  Sir!  Och,  if  the  same  pig  ’ud 
come  into  the  care  o’  the  misthress.  Gad  bliss 
her!  an’  I’m  sure  if  she  has  as  much  gudness  in 
her  face  as  the  hanerable  dinnha  ousahl  — the 
handsome  gintleman  she’s  married  upon!— = 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


67 


you’ll  have  her  thrivin’  bravely.  Sir,  shartly, 
plase  Gad,  if  you’ll  take  courage.  Will  I 
dhrive  her  up  the  aveny  fwhor  you,  Sir?  A good 
gintlewoman  I’m  sure,  is  the  same  mishtriss! 
Will  I dhrive  her  up  fwhor  you.  Sir?  Skadh 
amuck — shadh  dherim! 

“No,  no;  I have  no  further  time  to  lose;  you 
may  go  forward.” 

“ Thank  yer  haner:  is  it  whorid  toarst  the 
house  abow.  Sir?  I wouldn’t  be  standin’  up. 
Sir,  wit  you  about  a thrifle;  an’  you’ll  have  her. 
Sir,  fwhor  any  thing  you  plase  bey  ant  a pound, 
yer  haner;  an’  ’tis  throwin’  her  away  it  is:  but 
one  can’t  be  hard  wit  a rale  gintleman,  any  way.” 
“You  only  annoy  me,  man;  besides  I don’t 
want  the  pig ; you  lose  time ; I don’t  want  to  buy 
it,  I repeat  to  you.” 

“ Gad  bliss  you.  Sir — Gad  bliss  you!  Maybe 
if  I’d  make  up  to  the  mishthress,  yer  haner! 
Thrath  she  wouldn’t  turn  the  crathur  from  the 
place,  in  regard  that  the  tindherness  ow  the 
feelin’  would  come  ower  her — the  rale  gintle- 
woman, any  way!  ’Tis  dag  chape  you  have  her 
at  what  I said.  Sir;  an’  Gad  bliss  you!  ” 

“ Do  you  want  to  compel  me  to  purchase  it 
whether  I will  or  no?” 

“ Thrath,  it’s  whor  next  to  nothin’  I’m  givin’ 
her  to  you.  Sir;  but  sure  you  can  make  your  own 
price  at  any  thing  beyant  a pound.  Hurrish 
amuck — stadli  anish! — be  asy,  you  crathur,  sure 
you’re  gettin’  into  good  quarthers,  any  how — 
goin’  to  the  hanerable  English  gintleman’s 
kitchen;  an’  Gad  knows  it’s  a pleasure  to  dale 


68 


IRELAND 


wit  ’em.  Och,  the  world’s  differ  there  is  be- 
tuxt  thim  an’  our  own  dirty  Irish  buckeens,  that 
’ud  shkin  a bad  skilleen,  an’  pay  their  debts  wit 
the  remaindher.  The  gateman  ’ud  let  me  in,  yer 
haner,  an’  I’ll  meet  you  at  the  big  house  abow.” 

“ Upon  my  honour  this  is  a good  jest,”  said 
the  gentleman,  absolutely  teased  into  compli- 
ance; “ you  are  forcing  me  to  buy  that  which  I 
don’t  want.” 

“ Sure  you  will.  Sir;  you’ll  want  more  nor  that 
yit,  please  Gad,  if  you  be  spared.  Come,  amuck 
— come,  you  crathur;  faix,  you’re  in  luck  so  you 
are — gettin’  so  good  a place  wit  his  haner  here, 
that  you  won’t  know  yourself  shortly,  plase  Gad.” 

He  immediately  commenced  driving  his  pig 
towards  the  gentleman’s  residence  with  such  an 
air  of  utter  simplicity,  as  would  have  imposed 
upon  any  man  not  guided  by  direct  inspiration. 
Whilst  he  approached  the  house,  its  proprietor 
arrived  there  by  another  path  a few  minutes  be- 
fore him,  and,  addressing  his  lady,  said. 

My  dear,  will  you  come  and  look  at  a pur- 
chase which  an  Irishman  has  absolutely  com- 
pelled me  to  make.  You  had  better  come  and 
see  himself  too,  for  he  is  the  greatest  simpleton 
of  an  Irishman  I have  ever  met  with.” 

The  lady’s  curiosity  was  more  easily  excited 
than  that  of  her  husband.  She  not  only  came 
out,  but  brought  with  her  some  ladies  who  had 
been  on  a visit,  in  order  to  hear  the  Irishman’s 
brogue,  and  to  amuse  themselves  at  his  expense. 
Of  the  pig,  too,  it  appeared  she  was  determined 
to  know  something. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


69 


George,  my  love,  is  the  pig  also  from  Ire- 
land? ’’ 

“ I don’t  know,  my  dear;  but  I should  think 
so  from  its  fleshless  appearance.  I have  never 
seen  so  spare  an  animal  of  that  class  in  this  coun- 
try.” 

“ Juliana,”  said  one  of  the  ladies  to  her  com- 
panion, “ don’t  go  too  near  him.  Gracious ! look 
at  the  bludgeon,  or  beam,  or  something  he  car- 
ries in  his  hand,  to  flght  and  beat  the  people,  I 
suppose:  yet,”  she  added,  putting  up  her  glass, 
“ the  man  is  actually  not  ill-looking ; and,  though 
not  so  tall  as  the  Irishman  in  Sheridan’s  Rivals, 
he  is  well  made.” 

“ His  eyes  are  good,”  said  her  companion — 
“ a bright  gray  and  keen ; and  were  it  not  that 
his  nose  is  rather  short  and  turned  up,  he  would 
be  handsome.” 

“ George,  my  love,”  exclaimed  the  lady  of  the 
mansion,  “he  is  like  most  Irishmen  of  his  class 
that  I have  seen;  indeed,  scarcely  so  intelligent, 
for  he  does  appear  quite  a simpleton,  except, 
perhaps,  a lurking  kind  of  expression,  which  is  a 
sign  of  their  humour,  I suppose.  Don’t  you 
think  so,  my  love  ? ” 

“No,  my  dear;  I think  him  a bad  specimen  of 
the  Irishman.  Whether  it  is  that  he  talks  our 
language  but  imperfectly,  or  that  he  is  a stupid 
creature,  I cannot  say;  but  in  selling  the  pig  just 
now,  he  actually  told  me  that  he  would  let  me 
have  it  for  more  than  it  was  worth.” 

“ Oh,  that  was  so  laughable!  We  will  speak 
to  him,  though.” 


70 


IRELAND 


The  degree  of  estimation  in  which  these  civil- 
ized English  held  Phil  was  so  low,  that  this  con- 
versation took  place  within  a few  yards  of  him, 
precisely  as  if  he  had  been  an  animal  of  an  in- 
ferior species,  or  one  of  the  aborigines  of  New 
Zealand. 

“ Pray  what  is  your  name?  ” inquired  the  ma- 
tron. 

“ Phadhrumshagh  Corfuffle,  plase  yer  haner: 
my  fadher  carrid  the  same  name  upon  him. 
We’re  av  the  Corfuffles  av  Leatherum  Laghy, 
my  lady ; but  my  grandmudher  was  a Dornyeen, 
an’  my  own  mudher,  plase  yer  haner,  was  o’  the 
Shudhurthagans  o’  Ballymadoghy,  my  lady- 
ship. Stadh  anish,  amuck  hradagh!  — be  asy, 
can’t  you,  an’  me  in  conwershation  wit  the 
beauty  o’  the  world  that  I’m  spakin’  to.” 

“ That’s  the  Negus  language,”  observed  one 
of  the  young  ladies,  who  aff ected  to  be  a wit  and 
a blue-stocking ; “ it’s  Irish  and  English  mixed.” 
“ Thrath,  an’  but  that  the  handsome  young 
lady’s  so  purty,”  observed  Phil,  “I’d  be  sayin’ 
myself  that  that’s  a quare  remark  upon  a poor 
unlarned  man ; but,  Gad  bless  her,  she  is  so  purty 
what  can  one  say  for  lookin’  an  her!  ” 

“ The  poor  man,  Adelaide,  speaks  as  well  as 
he  can,”  replied  the  lady,  rather  reprovingly: 
“he  is  by  no  means  so  wild  as  one  would  have 
expected.” 

“ Candidly  speaking,  much  tamer  than  I ex- 
pected,” rejoined  the  wit.  “ Indeed,  I meant 
the  poor  Irishman  no  offence.” 

“ Where  did  you  get  the  pig,  friend?  and  how 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


71 


come  you  to  have  it  for  sale  so  far  from  home?  ” 
“ Fwhy  it  isn’t  whor  sale,  my  lady,”  replied 
Phil,  evading  the  former  question;  “the  mas- 
ther  here.  Gad  bless  him  an’  spare  him  to  you, 
ma’am! — thrath,  an’  it’s  his  four  quarthers  that 
knew  how  to  pick  out  a wife,  any  how,  whor 
beauty  an’  all  hanerable  whormations  o’  gi’an- 
dheur — so  he  did;  an’  well  he  desarves  you,  my 
lady:  faix,  it’s  a fine  houseful  o’  thim  you’ll  have, 
plase  Gad — an’  fwhy  not?  whin  it’s  all  in  the 
coorse  o’  Providence,  bein’  both  so  handsome; — 
he  gev  me  a pound  note  whor  her  my  ladyship, 
an’  his  own  plisure  aftherwards;  an’  I’m  now 
watin’  to  be  ped.” 

“ What  kind  of  a country  is  Ireland,  as  I un- 
derstand you  are  an  Irishman?  ” 

“ Thrath,  my  lady,  it’s  like  fwhat  maybe  you 
never  seen — a fool’s  purse,  ten  guineas  goin’  out 
whor  one  that  goes  in.” 

“ Upon  my  word  that’s  wit,”  observed  the 
young  blue-stocking. 

“What’s  your  opinion  of  Irishwomen?”  the 
lady  continued ; “ are  they  handsomer  than  the 
English  ladies,  think  you?  ” 

“ Murdher,  my  lady,”  says  Phil,  raising  his 
caubeen,  and  scratching  his  head  in  pretended 
perplexity,  with  his  finger  and  thumb,  “ fwhat 
am  I to  say  to  that,  ma’am,  and  all  of  yez  to  the 
f whore?  But  the  sarra  one  av  me  will  give  it 
agin  the  darlins  beyant.” 

“ But  which  do  you  think  the  more  hand- 
some? ” 

“ Thrath  I do,  my  lady;  the  Irish  and  English 


72 


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women  would  flog  the  world,  an’  sure  it  would 
be  a burnin’  shame  to  go  to  set  them  agin  one 
another  fwhor  beauty.” 

“ Whom  did  you  mean  by  the  ‘ darlins  be- 
yant’?”  inquired  the  blue-stocking,  attempting 
to  pronounce  the  words. 

“ Faix,  Miss,  who  but  the  crathurs  ower  the 
wather,  that  kills  us  entirely,  so  they  do.” 

“ I cannot  comprehend  him,”  she  added  to  the 
lady  of  the  mansion. 

“ Arrah,  maybe  I’d  make  bould  to  take  up  the 
manners  from  you  fwhor  a while,  my  lady,  plase 
yer  haner?  ” said  Phil,  addressing  the  latter. 

“ I do  not  properly  understand  you,”  she  re- 
plied, “ speak  plainer.” 

“ Throth,  that’s  fwhat  they  do,  yer  haner; 
they  never  go  about  the  bush  wit  yez — the  gintle- 
men,  ma’am,  of  our  country,  fwhin  they  do  be 
coortin’  yez;  an’  I want  to  ax,  ma’am,  if  you 
plase,  fwhat  you  think  of  thim,  that  is  if  ever 
any  of  them  had  the  luck  to  come  acrass  you,  my 
lady?  ” 

“ I have  not  been  acquainted  with  many  Irish 
gentlemen,”  she  replied,  “ but  I hear  they  are 
men  of  a remarkable  character.” 

“Faix,  ’tis  you  may  say  that,”  replied  Phil; 
“ sowl,  my  lady,  ’tis  well  for  the  masther  here, 
plase  yer  haner.  Sir,  that  none  o’  them  met  wit 
the  misthress  before  you  was  both  marrid,  or, 
wit  riverence  be  it  spoken,  ’tis  the  sweet  side  o’ 
the  tongue  they’d  be  layin’  upon  you,  ma’am, 
an’  the  rough  side  to  the  masther  himself,  along 
wit  a few  scrapes  of  a pen  on  a slip  o’  paper,  jist 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


73 


to  appoint  the  time  and  place,  in  regard  of  her 
ladyship’s  purty  complexion — an’  who  can  deny 
that,  any  way?  Faix  ma’am,  they’ve  a way  wit 
them,  my  counthrymin,  that  the  ladies  like  well 
enough  to  thravel  by.  Asy,  you  deludher,  an’ 
me  in  conwersaytion  wit  the  quality.” 

“ I am  quite  anxious  to  know  how  you  came 
by  the  pig,  Paddy,”  said  the  wit. 

“ Arrah,  Miss,  sure  ’tisn’t  pigs  you’re  thinkin’ 
on,  an’  us  discoursin’  about  the  gintlemen  from 
Ireland,  that  you’re  all  so  fond  ow  here;  faix. 
Miss,  they’re  the  boys  that  fwoight  for  yees,  an’ 
’ud  rather  be  bringing  an  Englishman  to  the  sad 
fwhor  your  sakes,  nor  atin’  bread  an’  butther. 
Fwhy,  now.  Miss,  if  you  were  beyant  wit  us, 
sarra  ounce  o’  gunpowdher  we’d  have  in  no  time, 
for  love  or  money.” 

“ Upon  my  word  I should  like  to  see  Ireland!  ” 
exclaimed  the  blue-stocking ; “ but  why  would 
the  gunpowdher  get  scarce,  pray?  ” 

“ Faix,  fightin’  about  you.  Miss,  an’  all  of 
yez,  sure;  for  myself  sees  no  differ  at  all  in  your 
hanerable  fwhormations  of  beauty  and  gran- 
dheur,  an’  all  high-flown  admirations.” 

“ But  tell  us  where  you  got  the  pig,  Paddy?  ” 
persisted  the  wit,  struck  naturally  enough  with 
the  circumstance.  “ How  do  you  come  to  have 
an  Irish  pig  so  far  from  home?  ” 

“ Fwhy  thin.  Miss,  ’twas  to  a brodher  o’  my 
own  I was  bringing  it,  that  was  livin’  down  the 
counthry  here,  an  fwhin  I came  to  f where  he 
lived,  the  sarra  one  o’  me  knew  the  place,  in  re- 
gard o’  havin’  forgot  the  name  of  it  entirely,  an’ 


74 


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there  was  I wit  the  poor  crathur  an  my  hands,  till 
his  haner  here  bought  it  whrom  me — Gad  bless 
you,  Sir!” 

“ As  I live,  there’s  a fine  Irish  blunder,”  ob- 
served the  wit;  “ I shall  put  it  in  my  common- 
place-book — it  will  be  so  genuine.  I declare  I’m 
quite  delighted ! ” 

“Well,  Paddy,”  said  the  gentleman,  “here’s 
your  money.  There’s  a pound  for  you,  and 
that’s  much  more  than  the  miserable  animal  is 
worth.” 

“ Thrath,  Sir,  you  have  the  crathur  at  what 
we  call  in  Ireland  a bargain.^®  Maybe  yer 
haner  ’ud  spit  upon  the  money  fwhor  luck.  Sir. 
It’s  the  way  we  do.  Sir,  beyant.” 

“ No,  no,  Paddy,  take  it  as  it  is.  Good 
heavens!  what  barbarous  habits  these  Irish  have 
in  all  their  modes  of  life,  and  how  far  they  are 
removed  from  anything  like  civilization!  ” 

“ Thank  yer  haner.  Faix,  Sir,  this’ll  come  so 
handy  for  the  landlord  at  home,  in  regard  o’  the 
rint  for  the  bit  o’  phatie  ground,  so  it  will,  if  I 
can  get  home  agin  widout  brakin’  it.  Arrah, 
maybe  yer  haner  ’ud  give  me  the  price  o’  my  bed, 
an’  a bit  to  ate.  Sir,  an’  keep  me  from  brakin’  in 
upon  this.  Sir,  Gad  bless  the  money!  I’m 
thinkin’  o’  the  poor  wife  an’  childher.  Sir — 
strivin’,  so  I am,  to  do  fwhor  the  darlins.” 

“ Poor  soul,”  said  the  lady,  “ he  is  affectionate 
in  the  midst  of  his  wretchedness  and  ignorance.” 
“ Here — here,”  replied  the  Englishman,  anx- 
ious to  get  rid  of  him,  “ there’s  a shilling,  which 


TRAITS,  AND  STORIES  75 

I give  because  you  appear  to  be  attached  to 
your  family.” 

“ Och,  och,  fwhat  can  I say,  Sir,  only  that 
long  may  you  reign  ower  your  family  an’  the 
hanerable  ladies  to  the  f whore.  Sir.  Gad  fwhor 
ever  bliss  you.  Sir,  but  you’re  the  kind,  noble 
gintleman,  an’  all  belongin’  to  you.  Sir!  ” 

Having  received  the  shilling,  he  was  in  the 
act  of  departing,  when,  after  turning  it  deliber- 
ately in  his  hand,  shrugging  his  shoulders  two  or 
three  times,  and  scratching  his  head,  with  a 
vacant  face  he  approached  the  lady. 

‘‘  Musha,  ma’am,  an’  maybe  ye’d  have  the 
tindherness  in  your  heart,  seein’  that  the  gud- 
ness  is  in  yer  hanerable  face,  any  way,  an’  it 
would  save  the  skillyeen  that  the  masther  gev’d 
for  payin’  my  passage,  so  it  would,  jist  to  bid 
the  steward,  my  ladyship,  to  ardher  me  a bit  to 
ate  in  the  kitchen  below.  The  hunger,  ma’am, 
is  hard  upon  me,  my  lady;  an’  fwhat  I’m  doin’, 
sure,  is  in  regard  o’  the  wife  at  home,  an’  the 
childher,  the  crathurs,  an’  me  far  fwhrom  them, 
in  a sthrange  counthry.  Gad  help  me ! ” 

“What  a singular  being,  George!  and  how 
beautifully  is  the  economy  of  domestic  affection 
exemplified,  notwithstanding  his  half-savage 
state,  in  the  little  plans  he  devises  for  the  benefit 
of  his  wife  and  children!”  exclaimed  the  good 
lady,  quite  unconscious  that  Phil  was  a bachelor. 
“ Juliana,  my  love,  desire  Timmins  to  give  him 
his  dinner.  Follow  this  young  lady,  good  man, 
and  she  will  order  you  refresliment.” 


76 


IRELAND 


“ Gad’s  blessin’  upon  your  beauty  an’  gud- 
ness,  my  lady;  an’  a man  might  thravel  far  afore 
he’d  meet  the  likes  o’  you  for  aither  o’  them. 
Is  it  the  other  handsome  young  lady  I’m  to  folly, 
ma’am?  ” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  young  wit,  with  an  arch 
smile;  “ come  after  mef" 

“ Thrath,  Miss,  an’  it’s  an  asy  task  to  do  that, 
any  way;  wit  a heart  an’  a half  I go,  acushla; 
an’  I seen  the  day.  Miss,  that  it’s  not  much  of 
mate  an’  dhrink  ’ud  throuble  me,  if  I jist  got 
lave  to  be  lookin’  at  you,  wit  nothin’  but  your- 
self to  think  an.  But  the  wife  an’  childher.  Miss, 
makes  great  changes  in  us  entirely.” 

“ Why  you  are  quite  gallant,  Paddy.” 

“ Trath,  I suppose  I am  now.  Miss;  but  you 
see,  my  hanerable  young  lady,  that’s  our 
fwhailin’  at  home:  the  counthry’s  poor,  an’  we 
can’t  help  it,  wheder  or  not.  We’re  fwhorced 
to  it.  Miss,  whin  we  come  ower  here,  by  you, 
an’  the  likes  a’  you,  mavourneeni  ” 

Phil  then  proceeded  to  the  house,  was  sent  to 
the  kitchen  by  the  young  lady,  and  furnished 
through  the  steward  with  an  abundant  supply 
of  cold  meat,  bread  and  beer,  of  which  he  con- 
trived to  make  a meal  that  somewhat  astonished 
the  servants.  Having  satisfied  his  hunger,  he 
deliberately — ^but  with  the  greatest  simplicity 
of  countenance — filled  the  wallet  which  he  car- 
ried slung  across  his  back,  with  whatever  he  had 
left,  observing  as  he  did  it: — 

“ Fwhy,  thin,  ’tis  sthrange  it  is  that  the  same 
custom  is  wit  us  in  Ireland  bey  ant  that  is  here; 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


77 


fwhor  whinever  a thraveller  is  axed  in,  he  al- 
ways brings  fwhat  he  doesn’t  ate  along  wit 
him.  An  sure  enough  it’s  the  same  here  amongst 
yez,”  added  he,  packing  up  the  bread  and  beef  as 
he  spoke,  “ but  Gad  bliss  the  custom,  any  how, 
fwhor  it’s  a good  one!  ” 

When  he  had  secured  the  provender,  and  was 
ready  to  resume  his  journey,  he  began  to  yawn, 
and  to  exhibit  the  most  unequivocal  symptoms 
of  fatigue: 

“ Arrah,  Sir,”  said  he  to  the  steward,  ‘‘  you 
wouldn’t  have  e’er  an  ould  barn  that  I’d  throw 
myself  in  fwhor  the  night?  The  sarra  leg  I 
have  to  put  undlier  me,  now  that  I’ve  got  stiff 
wit  the  sittin’  so  lang;  that,  an’  a wishp  o’ 
sthraw  Sir,  to  sleep  an,  an’  Gad  bliss  you!  ” 
“Paddy,  I cannot  say,”  replied  the  steward; 
“ but  I shall  ask  my  master,  and  if  he  orders  it, 
you  shall  have  the  comfort  of  a hard  floor  and 
clean  straw,  Paddy — that  you  shall.” 

“ Many  thanks  to  you.  Sir:  it’s  in  your  face, 
in  thrath,  the  same  gudness  an’  ginerosity.” 

The  gentleman,  on  hearing  Phil’s  request  to 
be  permitted  a sleeping-place  in  the  barn,  was 
rather  surprised  at  his  wretched  notion  of  com- 
fort than  at  the  request  itself. 

“ Certainly,  Timmins,  let  him  sleep  there,”  he 
replied;  “ give  him  sacks  and  straw  enough.  I 
dare  say  he  will  feel  the  privilege  a luxury,  poor 
devil,  after  his  fatigue.  Give  him  liis  break- 
fast in  the  morning,  Timmins.  Good  heavens,” 
he  added,  “ what  a singular  people ! What  an 
amazing  progress  civilization  must  make  before 


78 


IRELAND 


these  Irish  can  be  brought  at  all  near  the  com- 
monest standard  of  humanity ! ” 

At  this  moment  Phil,  who  was  determined  to 
hack  the  steward’s  request,  approached  them. 

“ Paddy,”  said  the  gentleman,  anticipating 
him,  “ I have  ordered  you  sacks  and  straw  in 
the  barn,  and  your  breakfast  in  the  morning 
before  you  set  out.” 

“ Thrath,”  said  Phil,  “ if  there’s  e’er  a sthray 
blissin’  goin’,  depind  an  it.  Sir,  you’ll  get  it, 
fwhor  your  hanerable  ginerosity  to  the 
sthranger.  But  about  the  ‘ slip,’  Sir — if  the 
misthress  herself  ’ud  shake  the  wishp  o’  sthraw 
fwhor  her  in  the  far  earner  o’  the  kitchen  below, 
an’  see  her  gettin’  her  supper,  the  crathur,  be- 
fore she’d  put  her  to  bed,  she’d  be  thrivin’  like 
a salmon.  Sir,  in  less  than  no  time ; an’  to  ardher 
the  sarwints.  Sir,  if  you  plase,  not  to  be  de- 
fraudin’ the  crathur  of  the  big  phaties.  Fwhor 
in  regard  it  cannot  spake  fwhor  itself.  Sir,  it 
frets  as  wise  as  a Christyeen,  when  it’s  not  hon- 
estly thrated.” 

“ Never  fear,  Paddy;  we  shall  take  good  care 
of  it.” 

“ Thank  you.  Sir.  But  I aften  heerd.  Sir, 
that  you  dunna  how  to  feed  pigs  in  this  coun- 
thry  in  ardher  to  mix  the  fwhat  an’  lane,  lair 
(layer)  about.” 

“ And  how  do  you  manage  that  in  Ireland, 
Paddy? ” 

“ Fwhy,  Sir,  I’ll  tell  you  how  the  misthress. 
Gad  bliss  her,  will  manage  it  fwhor  you:  Take 
the  crathur.  Sir,  an’  feed  it  to-morrow  till  it’s 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


79 


as  full  as  a tick — that’s  fwhor  the  fwliat.  Sir; 
thin  let  her  give  it  nothin’  at  all  the  next  day, 
but  keep  it  black  fwhastin’ — that’s  fwhor  the 
lane  (lean).  Let  her  stick  to  that,  Sir,  keepin’ 
it  atin’  one  day  an’  fastin’  anodher,  for  six 
months,  thin  put  a knife  in  it,  an’  if  you  don’t 
have  the  fwhat  an’  lane,  lair  about,  beautiful 
all  out,  fwhy  niver  bl’eve  Phadrumshagh  Cor- 
fuffle  agin.  Ay,  indeed!” 

The  Englishman  looked  keenly  at  Phil,  but 
could  only  read  in  his  countenance  a thorough 
and  implicit  belief  in  his  own  recipe  for  mixing 
the  fat  and  lean.  It  is  impossible  to  express  his 
contempt  for  the  sense  and  intellect  of  Phil; 
nothing  could  surpass  it  but  the  contempt  which 
Phil  entertained  for  him. 

“ Well,”  said  he  to  the  servant,  “ I have  often 
heard  of  the  barbarous  habits  of  the  Irish,  but 
I must  say  that  the  incidents  of  this  evening 
have  set  my  mind  at  rest  upon  the  subject. 
Good  heavens ! when  will  ever  this  besotted 
country  rise  in  the  scale  of  nations!  Did  ever 
a human  being  hear  of  such  a method  of  feeding 
swine!  I should  have  thought  it  incredible  had 
I heard  it  from  any  but  an  Irishman!  ” 

Phil  then  retired  to  the  kitchen,  where  his  as- 
sumed simplicity  highly  amused  the  servants, 
who,' after  an  hour  or  two’s  fun  with  “ Paddy,” 
conducted  him  in  a kind  of  contemptuous  pro- 
cession to  the  barn,  where  they  left  him  to  his 
repose. 

The  next  morning  he  failed  to  appear  at 
the  hour  of  breakfast,  but  his  non-appearance 


80 


IRELAND 


was  attributed  to  his  fatigue,  in  consequence  of 
which  he  was  supposed  to  have  over-slept  him- 
self. On  going,  however,  to  call  him  from  the 
barn,  they  discovered  that  he  had  decamped; 
and  on  looking  after  the  “ slip,’'  it  was  found 
that  both  had  taken  French  leave  of  the  English- 
man. Phil  and  the  pig  had  actually  travelled 
fifteen  miles  that  morning,  before  the  hour  on 
which  he  was  missed — Phil  going  at  a dog’s  trot, 
and  the  pig  following  at  such  a respectful  dis- 
tance as  might  not  appear  to  identify  them  as 
fellow-travellers.  In  this  manner  Phil  sold  the 
pig  to  upwards  of  two  dozen  intelligent  English 
gentlemen  and  farmers,  and  after  winding  up 
his  bargains  successfully,  both  arrived  in  Liver- 
pool, highly  delighted  by  their  commercial  trip 
through  England. 

The  passage  from  Liverpool  to  Dublin,  in 
Phil’s  time,  was  far  different  from  that  which 
steam  and  British  enterprise  have  since  made  it. 
A vessel  was  ready  to  sail  for  the  latter  place  on 
the  very  day  of  Phil’s  arrival  in  town;  and,  as 
he  felt  rather  anxious  to  get  out  of  England  as 
soon  as  he  could,  he  came,  after  selling  his  pig 
in  good  earnest,  to  the  aforesaid  vessel  to  ascer- 
tain if  it  were  possible  to  get  a deck  passage. 
The  year  had  then  advanced  to  the  latter  part 
of  autumn;  so  that  it  was  the  season  when  those 
inconceivable  hordes  of  Irishmen  who  emigrate 
periodically  for  the  purpose  of  lightening  John 
Bull’s  labour,  were  in  the  act  of  returning  to 
that  country  in  which  they  find  little  to  welcome 
them — but  domestic  affection  and  misery. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


81 


When  Phil  arrived  at  the  vessel,  he  found  the 
captain  in  a state  of  peculiar  difficulty.  About 
twelve  or  fourteen  gentlemen  of  rank  and  prop- 
erty, together  with  a score  or  upwards  of  highly 
respectable  persons,  but  of  less  consideration, 
were  in  equal  embarrassment.  The  fact  was, 
that  as  no  other  vessel  left  Liverpool  that  day, 
about  five  hundred  Irishmen,  mostly  reapers 
and  mowers,  had  crowded  upon  deck,  each  deter- 
mined to  keep  his  place  at  all  hazards.  The 
captain,  whose  vessel  was  small,  and  none  of 
the  stoutest,  flatly  refused  to  put  to  sea  with 
such  a number.  He  told  them  it  was  madness 
to  think  of  it;  he  could  not  risk  the  lives  of  the 
other  passengers,  nor  even  their  own,  by  sailing 
with  five  hundred  on  the  deck  of  so  small  a 
vessel.  If  the  one-half  of  them  would  withdraw 
peaceably,  he  would  carry  the  other  half,  which 
was  as  much  as  he  could  possibly  accomplish. 
They  were  very  willing  to  grant  that  what  he 
said  was  true;  but  in  the  mean  time,  not  a man 
of  them  would  move,  and  to  clear  out  such  a 
number  of  fellows,  who  loved  notliing  better 
than  fighting,  armed,  too,  with  sickles  and 
scythes,  was  a task  beyond  either  his  ability  or 
inclination  to  execute.  He  remonstrated  with 
them,  entreated,  raged,  swore,  and  threatened; 
but  all  to  no  purpose.  His  threats  and  en- 
treaties were  received  with  equal  good-humour. 
Gibes  and  jokes  were  broken  on  him  without 
number,  and  as  his  passion  increased,  so  did 
their  mirth,  until  nothing  could  be  seen  but  the 

captain  in  vehement  gesticulation,  the  Irishmen 
III— 6 


82 


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huzzaing  him  so  vocif erously,  that  his  damns  and 
curses,  uttered  against  them,  could  not  reach 
even  his  own  ears. 

“ Gentlemen,”  said  he  to  his  cabin  passengers, 
“for  the  love  of  Heaven,  tax  your  invention  to 
discover  some  means  whereby  to  get  one-half  of 
these  men  out  of  the  vessel,  otherwise  it  will  be 
impossible  that  we  can  sail  to-day.  I have  al- 
ready proffered  to  take  one-half  of  them  by  lot, 
but  they  will  not  hear  of  it ; and  how  to  manage 
I am  sure  I don’t  know.” 

The  matter,  however,  was  beyond  their  depth ; 
the  thing  seemed  utterly  impracticable,  and  the 
chances  of  their  putting  to  sea  were  becoming 
fainter  and  fainter. 

“ B1 — t their  eyes ! ” he  at  length  exclaimed, 
“ the  ragged,  hungry  devils!  If  they  heard  me 
with  decency  I could  bear  their  obstinacy  better: 
but  no,  they  must  turn  me  into  ridicule,  and  break 
their  jests,  and  turn  their  cursed  barbarous  grins 
upon  me  in  my  own  vessel.  I say,  boys,”  he 
added,  proceeding  to  address  them  once  more — 
“ I say,  savages,  I have  just  three  observations 
to  make.  The  first  is,” — 

“ Arrah,  Captain,  avourneen,  hadn’t  you  bet- 
ther  get  upon  a stool,”  said  a voice,  “ an’  put 
a text  before  it,  thin  divide  it  dacently  into  three 
halves,  an’  make  a sarmon  of  it.” 

“ Captain,  you  wor  intinded  for  the  church,” 
added  another.  “ You’re  the  moral  of  a 
Methodist  preacher,  if  you  wor  dressed  in  black.” 
“ Let  him  alone,”  said  a third ; “ he’d  be  a 
jinteel  man  enough  in  a wildherness,  an’  ’ud 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


83 


make  an  illigant  dancin’-masther  to  the  bears.” 
“ He’s  as  graceful  as  a shaved  pig  on  its  hind 
legs,  dancin’  the  ‘ Baltithrum  Jig.’  ” 

The  captain’s  face  was  literally  black  with 
passion : he  turned  away  with  a curse,  which  pro- 
duced another  huzza,  and  swore  that  he  would 
rather  encounter  the  bay  of  Biscay  in  a storm, 
than  have  anything  to  do  with  such  an  un- 
manageable mob. 

“ Captain,”  said  a little,  shrewd-looking  Con- 
naught man,  “ what  ’ud  you  be  willin’  to  give 
any  body,  ower  an’  abow  his  free  passage,  that 
’ud  tell  you  how  to  get  one  half  o’  them  out?  ” 
“I’ll  give  him  a crown,”  replied  the  captain, 
“ together  with  grog  and  rations  to  the  eyes : I’ll 
be  hanged  if  I don’t.” 

“ Thin  I’ll  do  it  fwhor  you,  Sir,  if  you  keep 
your  word  wit  me.” 

“Done!”  said  the  captain;  “it’s  a bargain, 
my  good  fellow,  if  you  accomplish  it;  and, 
what’s  more.  I’ll  consider  you  a knowing  one.” 

“ I’m  a poor  Cannaught  man,  your  haner,” 
replied  our  friend  Phil;  “ but  what’s  to  prevent 
me  thryin’?  Tell  thim,”  he  continued,  “that 
you  must  go;  purtind  to  be  for  takin’  them  all 
wit  you.  Sir.  Put  Munsther  agin  Connaught, 
one  half  an  this  side,  an’  the  odher  an  that,  to 
keep  the  crathur  of  a ship  steady,  your  haner; 
an’  f whin  you  have  thim  half  an’  half,  wit  a little 
room  betuxt  thim,  ‘ now,’  says  yer  haner,  ‘ boys, 
you’re  divided  into  two  halves;  if  one  side  kicks 
the  other  out  o’  the  ship.  I’ll  bring  the  cun- 
quirors.’  ” 


84 


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The  captain  said  not  a word  in  reply  to  Phil, 
but  immediately  ranged  the  Munster  and  Con- 
naught men  on  each  side  of  the  deck — a matter 
which  he  found  little  difficulty  in  accomplishing, 
for  each  party,  hoping  that  he  intended  to  take 
themselves,  readily  declared  their  province,  and 
stood  together.  When  they  were  properly 
separated,  there  still  remained  about  forty  or 
fifty  persons  belonging  to  neither  province;  but, 
at  Phil’s  suggestion,  the  captain  paired  them  off 
to  each  division,  man  for  man,  until  they  were 
drawn  up  into  two  bodies. 

‘‘Now,”  said  he,  “there  you  stand:  let  one 
half  of  you  drub  the  other  out  of  the  vessel,  and 
the  conquerors  shall  get  their  passage.” 

Instant  was  the  struggle  that  ensued  for  the 
sake  of  securing  a passage  and  from  the  anxiety 
to  save  a shilling,  by  getting  out  of  Liverpool 
on  that  day.  The  saving  of  the  shilling  is  in- 
deed a consideration  with  Paddy  which  drives 
him  to  the  various  resources  of  begging,  claim- 
ing kindred  with  his  resident  countrymen  in 
England,  pretended  illness,  coming  to  be  passed 
from  parish  to  parish,  and  all  the  turnings  and 
shiftings  which  his  reluctance  to  part  with  money 
renders  necessary.  Another  night,  therefore, 
and  probably  another  day,  in  Liverpool,  would 
have  been  attended  with  expense.  This  argu- 
ment prevailed  with  all:  with  Munster  as  well 
as  with  Connaught,  and  they  fought  accordingly. 

When  the  attack  first  commenced,  each  party 
hoped  to  be  able  to  expel  the  other  without  blows. 


qifiS  arii  sahsaO 

'cd  \ouiQnO  «o  i«otV 


Cleariag  the  Ship 

Etching  from  an  Original  Drawing  by  Wrightson 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


85 


This  plan  was  soon  abandoned.  In  a few 
minutes  the  sticks  and  fists  were  busy.  Throt- 
tling, tugging,  cuffing,  and  knocking  down — 
shouting,  hallooing,  huzzaing,  and  yelling,  gave 
evident  proofs  that  the  captain,  in  embracing 
PhiFs  proposal,  had  unwittingly  applied  the 
match  to  a mine,  whose  explosion  was  likely  to 
be  attended  with  disastrous  consequences.  As 
the  fight  became  warm,  and  the  struggle  more 
desperate,  the  hooks  and  scythes  were  resorted 
to;  blood  began  to  flow,  and  men  to  fall,  disabled 
and  apparently  dying.  The  immense  crowd 
which  had  now  assembled  to  witness  the  fight 
among  the  Irishmen,  could  not  stand  tamely  by, 
and  see  so  many  lives  likely  to  be  lost,  without 
calling  in  the  civil  authorities.  A number  of 
constables  in  a few  minutes  attended;  but  these 
worthy  officers  of  the  civil  authorities  experi- 
enced very  uncivil  treatment  from  the  fists, 
cudgels,  and  sickles  of  both  parties.  In  fact, 
they  were  obliged  to  get  from  among  the  rioters 
with  all  possible  celerity,  and  to  suggest  to  the 
magistrates  the  necessity  of  calling  in  the 
military. 

In  the  mean  time  the  battle  rose  into  a furious 
and  bitter  struggle  for  victory.  The  deck  of 
the  vessel  was  actually  slippery  with  blood,  and 
many  were  lying  in  an  almost  lifeless  state. 
Several  were  pitched  into  the  hold,  and  had  their 
legs  and  arms  broken  by  the  fall;  some  were 
tossed  over  the  sides  of  the  vessel,  and  only 
saved  from  drowning  by  the  activity  of  the 


86 


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sailors;  and  not  a few  of  those  who  had  been 
knocked  down  in  the  beginning  of  the  fray  were 
trampled  into  insensibility. 

The  Munster  men  at  length  gave  way;  and 
their  opponents,  following  up  their  advantage, 
succeeded  in  driving  them  to  a man  out  of  the 
vessel,  just  as  the  military  arrived.  Fortunately 
their  interference  was  unnecessary.  The  ruf- 
fianly captain’s  object  was  accomplished;  and  as 
no  lives  were  lost,  nor  any  injury  more  serious 
than  broken  bones  and  flesh-wounds  sustained, 
he  got  the  vessel  in  readiness,  and  put  to  sea. 

Who  would  not  think  that  the  Irish  were  a 
nation  of  misers,  when  our  readers  are  informed 
that  all  this  bloodshed  arose  from  their  unwill- 
ingness to  lose  a shilling  by  remaining  in  Liver- 
pool another  night?  Or  who  could  believe  that 
these  very  men,  on  reaching  home,  and  meeting 
their  friends  in  a fair  or  market,  or  in  a public- 
house  after  mass  on  a Sunday,  would  sit  down 
and  spend,  recklessly  and  foolishly,  that  very 
money  which  in  another  country  they  part  with 
as  if  it  were  their  very  heart’s  blood?  Yet  so  it 
is!  Unfortunate  Paddy  is  wiser  anywhere 
than  at  home,  where  wisdom,  sobriety,  and  in- 
dustry are  best  calculated  to  promote  his  own 
interests. 

This  slight  sketch  of  Phil  Purcel  we  have  pre- 
sented to  our  readers  as  a specimen  of  the  low, 
cunning  Connaught-man ; and  we  have  only  to 
add,  that  neither  the  pig-selling  scene,  nor  the 
battle  on  the  deck  of  the  vessel  in  Liverpool,  is 
fictitious.  On  the  contrary,  we  have  purposely 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


87 


kept  the  tone  of  our  description  of  the  latter  cir- 
cumstance beneath  the  reality.  Phil,  however,  is 
not  drawn  as  a general  portrait,  but  as  one  of 
that  knavish  class  of  men  called  “ jobbers,”  a 
description  of  swindlers  certainly  not  more  com- 
mon in  Ireland  than  in  any  other  country.  We 
have  known  Connaughtmen  as  honest  and  hon- 
ourable as  it  was  possible  to  be;  yet  there  is  a 
strong  prejudice  entertained  against  them  in 
every  other  province  of  Ireland,  as  is  evident  by 
the  old  adage,  “ Never  trust  a Connaught-man.” 


GEOGRAPHY  OF  AN  IRISH  OATH 


No  pen  can  do  justice  to  the  extravagance 
and  frolic  inseparable  from  the  character  of  the 
Irish  people;  nor  has  any  system  of  philosophy 
been  discovered  that  can  with  moral  fitness  be 
applied  to  them.  Phrenology  fails  to  explain  it; 
for,  so  far  as  the  craniums  of  Irishmen  are  con- 
cerned, according  to  the  most  capital  surveys 
hitherto  made  and  reported  on,  it  appears  that, 
inasmuch  as  their  moral  and  intellectual  organs 
predominate  over  the  physical  and  sensual,  the 
people  ought,  therefore,  to  be  ranked  at  the  very 
tip-top  of  morality.  We  would  warn  the 
phrenologists,  however,  not  to  be  too  sanguine 
in  drawing  inferences  from  an  examination  of 
Paddy’s  head.  Heaven  only  knows  the  scenes 
in  which  it  is  engaged,  and  the  protuberances 
created  by  a long  life  of  hard  fighting.  Many 
an  organ  and  development  is  brought  out  on  it 
by  the  cudgel,  that  never  would  have  appeared 
had  Nature  been  left  to  herself. 

Drinking,  fighting,  and  swearing,  are  the 
three  great  characteristics  of  every  people. 
Paddy’s  love  of  fighting  and  of  whisky  has  been 
long  proverbial;  and  of  his  tact  in  swearing 
much  has  also  been  said.  But  there  is  one  de- 
partment of  oath-making  in  which  he  stands  un- 
rivalled and  unapproachable;  I mean  the  oLihi. 

88 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


89 


There  is  where  he  shines,  where  his  oath,  instead 
of  being  a mere  matter  of  fact  or  opinion,  rises 
up  into  the  dignity  of  epic  narrative,  containing 
within  itself  all  the  complexity  of  machinery, 
harmony  of  parts,  and  fertility  of  invention,  by 
which  your  true  epic  should  be  characterised. 

The  Englishman,  whom  we  will  call  the  histo- 
rian in  swearing,  will  depose  to  the  truth  of  this  or 
that  fact,  but  there  the  line  is  drawn:  he  swears 
his  oath  so  far  as  he  knows,  and  stands  still. 
“I’m  sure,  for  my  part,  I don’t  know;  I’ve  said 
all  I knows  about  it,”  and  beyond  this  his  be- 
sotted intellect  goeth  not. 

The  Scotchman,  on  the  other  hand,  who  is  the 
metaphysician  in  swearing,  sometimes  borders 
on  equivocation.  He  decidedly  goes  farther 
than  the  Englishman,  not  because  he  has  less 
honesty,  but  more  prudence.  He  will  assent  to, 
or  deny  a proposition;  for  the  Englishman’s  “ I 
don’t  know,”  and  the  Scotchman’s  “ I dinna 
ken,”  are  two  very  distinct  assertions  when 
properly  understood.  The  former  stands  out  a 
monument  of  dulness,  an  insuperable  barrier 
against  inquiry,  ingenuity,  and  fancy;  but  the 
latter  frequently  stretches  itself  so  as  to  em- 
brace hypothetically  a particular  opinion. 

But  Paddy!  Put  him  forward  to  prove  an 
alibi  for  his  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  cousin,  and 
you  will  be  gratified  by  the  pomp,  pride,  and 
circumstance  of  true  swearing.  Every  oath 
with  him  is  an  epic — pure  poetry,  abound- 
ing with  humour,  pathos,  and  the  highest  order 
of  invention  and  talent.  He  is  not  at  ease,  it 


90 


IRELAND 


is  true,  under  facts;  there  is  something  too  com- 
mon-place in  dealing  with  them,  which  his  genius 
scorns.  But  his  flights — his  flights  are  beauti- 
ful; and  his  episodes  admirable  and  happy.  In 
fact,  he  is  an  improvisator e at  oath-taking;  with 
this  difference,  that  his  extempore  oaths  possess 
all  the  ease  and  correctness  of  labour  and  design. 

He  is  not,  however,  altogether  averse  to  facts; 
but,  like  your  true  poet,  he  veils,  changes,  and 
modifies  them  with  such  skill,  that  they  possess 
all  the  merit  and  graces  of  fiction.  If  he  hap- 
pen to  make  an  assertion  incompatible  with  the 
plan  of  the  piece,  his  genius  acquires  fresh  en- 
ergy, enables  him  to  widen  the  design,  and  to 
create  new  machinery,  with  such  happiness  of 
adaptation,  that  what  appeared  out  of  propor- 
tion or  character  is  made,  in  his  hands,  to  con- 
tribute to  the  general  strength  and  beauty  of 
the  oath. 

’Tis  true,  there  is  nothing  perfect  under  the 
sun;  but  if  there  were,  it  would  certainly  be 
Paddy  at  an  alibi.  Some  flaws,  no  doubt,  oc- 
cur; some  slight  inaccuracies  may  be  noticed  by 
a critical  eye;  an  occasional  anachronism  stands 
out,  and  a mistake  or  so  in  geography;  but  let  it 
be  recollected  that  Paddy’s  alibi  is  but  a human 
production;  let  us  not  judge  him  by  harsher 
rules  than  those  which  we  apply  to  Homer, 
Virgil,  or  Shakspeare. 

“ Aliquando  bonus  dormitat  Homerus,”  is 
allowed  on  all  hands.  Virgil  made  Dido  and 
iEneas  contemporary,  though  they  were  not  so; 
and  Shakspeare,  by  the  creative  power  of  his 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


91 


genius,  changed  an  inland  town  into  a sea-port. 
Come,  come,  have  bowels.  Let  epic  swearing 
be  treated  with  the  same  courtesy  shown  to  epic 
poetry,  that  is,  if  both  are  the  production  of  a 
rare  genius.  I maintain,  J:hat  when  Paddy 
commits  a blemish  he  is  too  harshly  admonished 
for  it.  When  he  soars  out  of  sight  here,  as  oc- 
casionally happens,  does  he  not  frequently  alight 
somewhere  about  Sydney  Bay,  much  against 
his  own  inclination?  And  if  he  puts  forth  a 
hasty  production,  is  he  not  compelled,  for  the 
space  of  seven  or  fourteen  years,  to  revise  his 
oath?  But,  indeed,  few  works  of  fiction  are 
properly  encouraged  in  Ireland. 

It  would  be  unpardonable  in  us,  however,  to 
overlook  the  beneficial  effects  of  Paddy’s  pecul- 
iar genius  in  swearing  alibis.  Some  persons, 
who  display  their  own  egregious  ignorance  of 
morality,  may  be  disposed  to  think  that  it  tends 
to  lessen  the  obligation  of  an  oath,  by  inducing 
a habit  among  the  people  of  swearing  to  what 
is  not  true.  We  look  upon  such  persons  as  very 
dangerous  to  Ireland  and  to  the  repeal  of  the 
Union;  and  we  request  them  not  to  push  their 
principles  too  far  in  the  disturbed  parts  of  the 
country.  Could  society  hold  together  a single 
day,  if  nothing  but  truth  were  spoken?  Would 
not  law  and  lawyers  soon  become  obsolete,  if 
nothing  but  truth  were  sworn?  What  would 
become  of  parliament  if  truth  alone  were  ut- 
tered there?  Its  annual  proceedings  might  be 
dispatched  in  a month.  Fiction  is  the  basis  of 
society,  the  bond  of  commercial  prosperity,  the 


92 


IRELAND 


channel  of  communication  between  nation  and 
nation,  and  not  un  frequently  the  interpreter 
between  a man  and  his  own  conscience. 

For  these,  and  many  other  reasons  which  we 
could  adduce,  we  saw  with  Paddy,  “ Long  life  to 
fiction ! ” When  associated  with  swearing,  it 
shines  in  its  brightest  colours.  What,  for  in- 
stance, is  calculated  to  produce  the  best  and 
purest  of  the  moral  virtues  so  beautifully 
as  the  swearing  an  ahili?  Here  are  fortitude 
and  a love  of  freedom  resisting  oppression;  for 
it  is  well  known  that  all  law  is  oppression  in  Ire- 
land. 

There  is  compassion  for  the  peculiar  state  of 
the  poor  boy,  who,  perhaps,  only  burned  a 
family  in  tlieir  beds;  benevolence  to  prompt  the 
generous  effort  in  his  behalf;  disinterestedness 
to  run  the  risk  of  becoming  an  involuntary  ab- 
sentee ; fortitude  in  encountering  a host  of 
brazen-faced  lawyers;  patience  under  the  un- 
sparing grip  of  a cross-examiner;  perseverance 
in  conducting  the  oath  to  its  close  against  a host 
of  difficulties ; and  friendship,  which  bottoms 
and  crowns  them  all. 

Paddy’s  merits,  however,  touching  the  alibi, 
rest  not  here.  Fiction  on  these  occasions  only 
teaches  him  how  to  perform  a duty.  It  may  be, 
that  he  is  under  the  obligation  of  a previous  oath 
not  to  give  evidence  against  certain  of  his 
friends  and  associates.  Now,  could  anything  in 
the  whole  circle  of  religion  or  ethics  be  conceived 
that  renders  the  epic  style  of  swearing  so  in- 
cumbent upon  Paddy?  There  is  a kind  of 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


93 


moral  fitness  in  all  things;  for  where  the  neces- 
sity of  invention  exists,  it  is  consolatory  to  re- 
flect that  the  ability  to  invent  is  bestowed  along 
with  it. 

Next  to  the  alibi  comes  Paddy’s  powers  in  sus- 
taining a cross-examination.  ]\Iany  persons 
think  that  this  is  his  forte;  but  we  cannot  yield 
to  such  an  opinion,  nor  compromise  his  original- 
ity of  conception  in  the  scope  and  plan  of  an 
alibi.  It  is  marked  by  a minuteness  of  touch, 
and  a peculiarity  of  expression  which  give  it 
every  appearance  of  real  life.  The  circumstan- 
ces are  so  well  imagined,  the  groups  so  naturally 
disposed,  the  colouring  so  finished,  and  the  back- 
ground in  such  fine  perspective,  that  the  whole 
picture  presents  you  with  such  keeping  and  vrai- 
semblance,  as  could  be  accomplished  only  by  the 
genius  of  a master. 

In  point  of  interest,  however,  we  must  admit 
that  his  ability  in  a cross-examination  ranks  next 
to  his  skill  in  planning  an  alibi.  There  is,  in  the 
former,  a versatility  of  talent  that  keeps  him  al- 
ways ready;  a happiness  of  retort,  generally  dis- 
astrous to  the  wit  of  the  most  established  cross- 
examiner; an  apparent  simplicity,  which  is  quite 
as  impenetrable  as  the  lawyer’s  assurance;  a vis 
comica,  which  puts  the  court  in  tears;  and  an 
originality  of  sorrow,  that  often  convulses  it  with 
laughter.  His  resources,  when  he  is  pressed,  are 
inexhaustible ; and  the  address  with  which  he  con- 
trives to  gain  time,  that  he  may  suit  his  reply 
to  the  object  of  his  evidence,  is  beyond  all  praise. 
And  yet  his  appearance  when  he  mounts  the 


94 


IRELAND 


table  is  anything  but  prepossessing;  a sheepish 
look,  and  a loose- jointed  frame  of  body,  wrapped 
in  a frieze  great-coat,  do  not  promise  much. 
Nay,  there  is  often  a rueful  blank  expression  in 
his  visage,  which  might  lead  a stranger  to  antici- 
pate nothing  but  blunders  and  dulness.  This, 
however,  is  hypocrisy  of  the  first  water.  Just 
observe  the  tact  with  which  he  places  his  caubeen 
upon  the  table,  his  kippeen  across  it,  and  the 
experienced  air  with  which  he  pulls  up  the  waist- 
bands of  his  breeches,  absolutely  girding  his  loins 
for  battle.  ’Tis  true  his  blue  eye  has  at  present 
nothing  remarkable  in  it,  except  a drop  or  two 
of  the  native;  but  that  is  not  remarkable. 

When  the  direct  examination  has  been  con- 
cluded, nothing  can  be  finer  than  the  simplicity 
with  which  he  turns  round  to  the  lawyer  who  is 
to  cross-examine  him.  Yet,  as  if  conscious  that 
firmness  and  caution  are  his  main  guards,  he 
again  pulls  up  his  waistbands  with  a more  vigor- 
ous hitch,  looks  shyly  into  the  very  eyes  of  his 
opponent,  and  awaits  the  first  blow. 

The  question  at  length  comes;  and  Paddy, 
after  having  raised  the  collar  of  his  big  coat  on 
his  shoulder,  and  twisted  up  the  shoulder  along 
with  it,  directly  puts  the  query  back  to  the  lawyer, 
without  altering  a syllable  of  it,  for  the  purpose 
of  ascertaining  more  accurately  whether  that  is 
the  precise  question  that  has  been  put  to  him; 
for  Paddy  is  conscientious.  Then  is  the  science 
displayed  on  both  sides.  The  one,  a veteran, 
trained  in  all  the  technicalities  of  legal  puzzles, 
irony,  blarney,  sarcasm,  impudence,  stock  jokes. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


95 


quirks,  rigmarolery,  brow-beating,  ridicule,  and 
subtilty;  the  other  a poor  peasant,  relpng  only 
upon  the  justice  of  a good  cause  and  the  gifts 
of  nature;  without  either  experience  or  learning, 
and  with  nothing  but  his  native  modesty  to  meet 
the  forensic  effrontery  of  his  antagonist. 

Our  readers  will  perceive  that  the  odds  are  a 
thousand  to  one  against  Paddy;  yet,  when  he 
replies  to  a hackneyed  genius  at  cross-examina- 
tion, how  does  it  happen  that  he  uniformly  elicits 
those  roars  of  laughter  which  rise  in  the  court, 
and  convulse  it  from  the  judge  to  the  crier?  In 
this  laugh,  which  is  usually  at  the  expense  of  the 
cross-examiner,  Paddy  himself  always  joins,  so 
that  the  counsel  has  the  double  satisfaction  of 
being  made  not  only  the  jest  of  the  judge  and  liis 
brother  lawyers,  but  of  the  ragged  witness  whom 
he  attempted  to  make  ridiculous. 

It  is  not  impossible  that  this  merry  mode  of 
dispensing  justice  may  somewhat  encourage 
Paddy  in  that  independence  of  mind  which  rel- 
ishes not  the  idea  of  being  altogether  bound  by 
oaths  that  are  too  often  administered  with  a joc- 
ular spirit.  To  most  of  the  Irish  in  general  an 
oath  is  a solemn,  to  some,  an  awful  thing.  Of 
this  wholesome  reverence  for  its  sanction,  two  or 
three  testimonies  given  in  a court  of  justice 
usually  cure  them.  The  indifferent,  business- 
like manner  in  which  the  oaths  are  put,  the  sing- 
song tone  of  voice,  the  rapid  utterance  of  the 
words,  give  to  this  solemn  act  an  appearance  of 
excellent  burlesque,  which  ultimately  renders  the 
whole  proceedings  remarkable  for  the  absence  of 


96 


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truth  and  reality;  but,  at  the  same  time,  gives 
them  unquestionable  merit  as  a dramatic  repre- 
sentation, abounding  with  fiction,  well  related  and 
ably  acted. 

Thumb-kissing  is  another  feature  in  Paddy’s 
adroitness  too  important  to  be  passed  over  in 
silence.  Here  his  tact  shines  out  again ! It 
would  be  impossible  for  him,  in  many  cases,  to 
meet  the  perplexities  of  a cross-examination  so 
cleverly  as  he  does,  if  he  did  not  believe  that 
he  had,  by  kissing  his  thumb  instead  of  the  book, 
actually  taken  no  oath,  and  consequently  given 
to  himself  a wider  range  of  action.  We  must  ad- 
mit, however,  that  this  very  circumstance  involves 
him  in  difficulties  which  are  sometimes  peculiarly 
embarrassing.  Taking  everything  into  consid- 
eration, the  prospect  of  freedom  for  his  sixth 
cousin,  the  consciousness  of  having  kissed  his 
thumb,  or  the  consoling  reflection  that  he  swore 
only  on  a Law  Bible,  it  must  be  granted  that  the 
opportunities  presented  by  a cross-examination 
are  well  calculated  to  display  his  wit,  humour, 
and  fertility  of  invention.  He  is  accordingly 
great  in  it;  but  still  we  maintain  that  his  execu- 
tion of  an  alibi  is  his  ablest  performance,  com- 
prising, as  it  does,  both  the  conception  and  con- 
struction of  the  work. 

Both  the  oaths  and  imprecations  of  the  Irish 
display,  like  those  who  use  them,  indications  of 
great  cruelty  and  great  humour.  Many  of  the 
former  exhibit  that  ingenuity  which  comes  out 
when  Paddy  is  on  his  cross-examination  in  a 
court  of  justice.  Every  people,  it  is  true,  have 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


97 


resorted  to  the  habit  of  mutilating  or  changing 
in  their  oaths  the  letters  which  form  the  Cre- 
ator’s name;  but  we  question  if  any  have  sur- 
passed the  Irish  in  the  cleverness  with  which  they 
accomplish  it.  Mock  oaths  are  habitual  to  Irish- 
men in  ordinary  conversation ; but  the  use  of  any 
or  all  of  them  is  not  considered  to  constitute  an 
oath:  on  the  contrary,  they  are  in  the  mouths 
of  many  who  would  not,  except  upon  a ver}^  sol- 
emn occasion  indeed,  swear  by  the  name  of  the 
Deity  in  its  proper  form. 

The  ingenuity  of  their  mock  oaths  is  sufficient 
to  occasion  much  perplexity  to  any  one  disposed 
to  consider  it  in  connection  with  the  character 
and  moral  feelings  of  the  people.  Whether  to 
note  it  as  a reluctance  on  their  part  to  incur  the 
guilt  of  an  oath,  or  as  a proof  of  habitual  tact 
in  evading  it  by  artifice,  is  manifestly  a difficulty 
hard  to  be  overcome.  We  are  decidedly  inclined 
to  the  former;  for  although  there  is  much  laxity 
of  principle  among  Irishmen,  naturally  to  be  ex- 
pected from  men  whose  moral  state  has  been  neg- 
lected by  the  legislature,  and  deteriorated  by 
political  and  religious  asperity,  acting  upon  quick 
passions  and  badly  regulated  minds — yet  we  know 
that  they  possess,  after  all,  a strong,  but  vague 
undirected  sense  of  devotional  feeling  and  rever- 
ence, which  are  associated  with  great  crimes  and 
awfully  dark  shades  of  character.  This  explains 
one  chief  cause  of  the  sympathy  which  is  felt  in 
Ireland  for  criminals  from  whom  the  law  exacts 
the  fatal  penalty  of  death;  and  it  also  accounts, 
independently  of  the  existence  of  any  illegal  asso- 

III— 7 


98 


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ciation,  for  the  terrible  retribution  inflicted  upon 
those  who  come  forward  to  prosecute  them.  It 
is  not  in  Ireland  with  criminals  as  in  other  coun- 
tries, where  the  character  of  a murderer  or  in- 
cendiary is  notoriously  bad,  as  resulting  from  a 
life  of  gradual  profligacy  and  villany.  Far  from 
it.  In  Ireland  you  will  find  those  crimes  perpe- 
trated by  men  who  are  good  fathers,  good  hus- 
bands, good  sons,  and  good  neighbours — by  men 
who  would  share  their  last  morsel  or  their  last 
shilling  with  a fellow-creature  in  distress — who 
would  generously  lose  their  lives  for  a man  who 
had  obliged  them,  provided  he  had  not  incurred 
their  enmity — and  who  would  protect  a defence- 
less stranger  as  far  as  lay  in  their  power. 

There  are  some  mock  oaths  among  Irishmen 
which  must  have  had  their  origin  amongst  those 
whose  habits  of  thought  were  much  more  elevated 
than  could  be  supposed  to  characterise  the  lower 
orders.  “ By  the  powers  of  death  ” is  never  now 
used  as  we  have  written  it;  but  the  ludicrous 
travestie  of  it,  “ by  the  powdhers  o’  delf,”  is  quite 
common.  Of  this  and  other  mock  oaths  it  may 
be  right  to  observe,  that  those  who  swear  by  them 
are  in  general  ignorant  of  their  proper  origin. 
There  are  some,  however,  of  this  description 
whose  original  form  is  well  known.  One  of 
these  Paddy  displays  considerable  ingenuity  in 
using.  “ By  the  cross  ” can  scarcely  be  classed 
under  the  mock  oaths,  but  the  manner  in  which 
it  is  pressed  into  asseverations  is  amusing.  When 
Paddy  is  affirming  a truth  he  swears  ‘‘  by  the 
crass  ” simply,  and  this  with  him  is  an  oath  of 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


99 


considerable  obligation.  He  generally,  in  order 
to  render  it  more  impressive,  accompanies  it  with 
suitable  action,  that  is,  he  places  the  forefinger 
of  each  hand  across,  that  he  may  assail  you 
through  two  senses  instead  of  one.  On  the  con- 
trary, when  he  intends  to  hoax  you  by  asserting 
what  is  not  true,  he  ingeniously  multiplies  the 
oath,  and  swears  “ by  the  five  crasses,”  that  is 
by  liis  own  five  fingers,  placing  at  the  same  time 
his  four  fingers  and  his  thumbs  across  each  other 
in  a most  impressive  and  vehement  manner. 
Don’t  believe  him  then — the  knave  is  lying  as 
fast  as  possible,  and  with  no  remorse.  “ By  the 
crass  o’  Christ  ” is  an  oath  of  much  solemnity, 
and  seldom  used  in  a falsehood.  Paddy  also 
often  places  two  bits  of  straws  across,  and  some- 
times two  sticks,  upon  which  he  swears  with  an 
appearance  of  great  heat  and  sincerity — sed 
caveto! 

Irishmen  generally  consider  iron  as  a sacred 
metal.  In  the  interior  of  the  country,  the 
thieves  (but  few  in  number)  are  frequently 
averse  to  stealing  it.  Why  it  possesses  this  hold 
upon  their  affections  it  is  difficult  to  say,  but 
it  is  certain  that  they  rank  it  among  their  sacred 
things,  consider  that  to  find  it  is  lucky,  and  nail 
it  over  their  doors  when  found  in  the  convenient 
shape  of  a horse-shoe.  It  is  also  used  as  a 
medium  of  asserting  truth.  We  believe,  how- 
ever, that  the  sanction  it  imposes  is  not  very 
strong.  ‘‘By  this  blessed  iron!” — “by  this 
blessed  an’  holy  iron!”  are  oaths  of  an  inferior 
grade;  but  if  the  circumstance  on  which  they  are 


100 


IRELAND 


founded  be  a matter  of  indifference,  they  seldom 
depart  from  truth  in  using  them. 

We  have  said  that  Paddy,  when  engaged  in 
a fight,  is  never  at  a loss  for  a weapon,  and  we 
may  also  affirm,  that  he  is  never  at  a loss  for 
an  oath.  When  relating  a narrative,  or  some 
other  circumstance  of  his  own  invention,  if  con- 
tradicted, he  will  corroborate  it,  in  order  to  sus- 
tain his  credit  or  produce  the  proper  impression, 
by  an  abrupt  oath  upon  the  first  object  he  can 
seize.  “ Arrah,  nonsense!  by  this  pipe  in  my 
hand,  it’s  as  thrue  as  ” — and  then,  before  he  com- 
pletes the  illustration,  he  goes  on  with  a fine 
specimen  of  equivocation — “ By  the  stool  I’m  sit- 
tin’  an,  it  is;  an’  what  more  would  you  have  from 
me  barrin’  I take  my  book  oath  of  it?  ” Thus 
does  he,  under  the  mask  of  an  insinuation,  induce 
you  to  believe  that  he  has  actually  sworn  it, 
whereas  the  oath  is  always  left  undefined  and 
incomplete. 

Sometimes  he  is  exceedingly  comprehensive  in 
his  adjurations,  and  swears  upon  a magnificent 
scale;  as,  for  instance, — “By  the  contints  of  all 
the  books  that  ever  wor  opened  an’  shut,  it’s  as 
thrue  as  the  sun  to  the  dial.”  This  certainly 
leaves  “ the  five  crasses  ” immeasurably  behind. 
However,  be  cautious,  and  not  too  confident  in 
taking  so  sweeping  and  learned  an  oath  upon 
trust,  notwithstanding  its  imposing  effect.  We 
grant,  indeed,  that  an  oath  which  comprehends 
within  its  scope  all  the  learned  libraries  of 
Europe,  including  even  the  Alexandrian  of  old. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


lOI 


is  not  only  an  erudite  one,  but  establishes  in  a 
high  degree  the  taste  of  the  swearer,  and  dis- 
plays on  his  part  an  uncommon  grasp  of  intel- 
lect. Still  we  recommend  you,  whenever  you 
hear  an  alleged  fact  substantiated  by  it,  to  set 
your  ear  as  sharply  as  possible;  for,  after  all,  it 
is  more  than  probable  that  every  book  by  which 
he  has  sworn  might  be  contained  in  a nutshell. 
The  secret  may  be  briefly  explained: — Paddy  is 
in  the  habit  of  substituting  the  word  ?zever  for 
ever.  “ By  all  the  books  that  never  wor  opened 
or  shut,”  the  reader  perceives,  is  only  a flourish 
of  trumpets — a mere  delusion  of  the  enemy. 

In  fact,  Paddy  has  oaths  rising  gradually  from 
the  lying  ludicrous  to  the  superstitious  solemn, 
each  of  which  finely  illustrates  the  nature  of  the 
subject  to  which  it  is  applied.  When  he  swears 
“ By  tire  contints  o’  Moll  Kelly’s  Primer,”  or 
“ By  the  piper  that  played  afore  Moses,”  you 
are,  perhaps,  as  strongly  inclined  to  believe  him 
as  when  he  draws  upon  a more  serious  oath ; that 
is,  you  almost  regret  the  thing  is  not  the  gospel 
that  Paddy  asserts  it  to  be.  In  the  former  sense, 
the  humorous  narrative  which  calls  forth  the 
laughable  burlesque  of  “ By  the  piper  o’  Moses,” 
is  usually  the  richest  lie  in  the  whole  range  of 
fiction. 

Paddy  is,  in  his  ejaculatory,  as  well  as  in  all 
his  other  mock  oaths,  a kind  of  smuggler  in 
morality,  imposing  as  often  as  he  can  upon  his 
own  conscience,  and  upon  those  who  exercise 
spiritual  authority  over  him.  Perhaps  more  of 


102 


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his  oaths  are  blood-stained  than  would  be  found 
among  the  inhabitants  of  all  Christendom  put 
together. 

Paddy’s  oaths  in  his  amours  are  generally  rich 
specimens  of  humorous  knavery  and  cunning. 
It  occasionally  happens — but  for  the  honour  of 
our  virtuous  countrywomen,  we  say  but  rarely — 
that  by  the  honey  of  his  flattering  and  delusive 
tongue,  he  succeeds  in  placing  some  unsuspect- 
ing girl’s  reputation  in  rather  a hazardous  predic- 
ament. When  the  priest  comes  to  investigate 
the  affair,  and  to  cause  him  to  make  compensation 
to  the  innocent  creature  who  suffered  by  his 
blandishments,  it  is  almost  uniformly  ascertained 
that,  in  order  to  satisfy  her  scruples  as  to  the 
honesty  of  his  promises,  he  had  sworn  marriage 
to  her  on  a hook  of  ballads!!!  In  other  cases 
blank  books  have  been  used  for  the  same  pur- 
pose. 

If,  however,  you  wish  to  pin  Paddy  up  in  a 
corner,  get  him  a Relic,  a Catholic  prayer-book, 
or  a Douay  Bible  to  swear  upon.  Here  is  where 
the  fox — notwithstanding  all  his  turnings  and 
windings  upon  heretic  Bibles,  books  of  ballads,  or 
mock  oaths — is  caught  at  last.  The  strongest 
principle  in  him  is  superstition.  It  may  be  found 
as  the  prime  mover  in  his  best  and  worst  actions. 
An  atrocious  man,  who  is  superstitious,  will  per- 
form many  good  and  charitable  actions,  with  a 
hope  that  their  merit  in  the  sight  of  God  may 
cancel  the  guilt  of  his  crimes.  On  the  other 
hand,  a good  man,  who  is  superstitiously  the  slave 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


103 


of  his  religious  opinions,  will  lend  himself  to  those 
illegal  combinations,  whose  object  is,  by  keeping 
ready  a system  of  organised  opposition  to  an 
heretical  government,  to  fulfil,  if  a political  crisis 
should  render  it  practicable,  the  absurd  prophecies 
of  Pastorini  and  Columbkil.  Although  the 
prophecies  of  the  former  would  appear  to  be  out 
of  date  to  a rational  reader,  yet  Paddy,  who  can 
see  farther  into  prophecy  than  any  rational 
reader,  honestly  believes  that  Pastorini  has  left 
for  those  who  are  superstitiously  given,  sufficient 
range  of  expectation  in  several  parts  of  his  work. 

We  might  enumerate  many  other  oaths  in  fre- 
quent use  among  the  peasantry;  but  as  our  object 
is  not  to  detail  them  at  full  length,  we  trust  that 
those  already  specified  may  be  considered  suffi- 
cient to  enable  our  readers  to  get  a fuller  insight 
into  their  character,  and  their  moral  influence 
upon  the  people. 

The  next  thing  which  occurs  to  us  in  connec- 
tion with  the  present  subject,  is  cursing;  and 
here  again  Paddy  holds  the  first  place.  His  im- 
precations are  often  full,  bitter,  and  intense.  In- 
deed, there  is  more  poetry  and  epigrammatic 
point  in  them  than  in  those  of  any  other  country 
in  the  world. 

We  find  it  a difficult  thing  to  enumerate  the 
Irish  curses,  so  as  to  do  justice  to  a subject  so 
varied  and  so  liable  to  be  shifted  and  improved 
by  the  fertile  genius  of  those  who  send  them 
abroad.  Indeed,  to  reduce  them  into  order  and 
method  would  be  a task  of  considerable  difficulty. 


104 


IRELAND 


Every  occasion,  and  every  fit  of  passion,  fre- 
quently produce  a new  curse,  perhaps  equal  in 
bitterness  to  any  that  has  gone  before  it. 

Many  of  the  Irish  imprecations  are  difficult  to 
be  understood,  having  their  origin  in  some  his- 
torical event,  or  in  poetical  metaphors  that  require 
a considerable  process  of  reasoning  to  explain 
them.  Of  this  twofold  class  is  that  general  one, 
“ The  curse  of  Cromwell  on  you!  ” which  means, 
may  you  suffer  all  that  a tyrant  like  Cromwell 
would  inflict!  and  “ The  curse  o’  the  crows  upon 
you ! ” which  is  probably  an  allusion  to  the  Dan- 
ish invasion — a raven  being  the  symbol  of  Den- 
mark; or  it  may  be  tantamount  to  “ May  you  rot 
on  the  hills,  that  the  crows  may  feed  upon  your 
carcase!”  Perhaps  it  may  thus  be  understood 
to  imprecate  death  upon  you  or  some  member  of 
your  house — alluding  to  the  superstition  of  rooks 
hovering  over  the  habitations  of  the  sick,  when 
the  malady  with  which  they  are  afflicted  is  known 
to  be  fatal.  Indeed,  the  latter  must  certainly  be 
the  meaning  of  it,  as  is  evident  from  the  proverb 
of  “ Die,  an’  give  the  crow  a puddin’.” 

“ Hell’s  cure  to  you ! — the  devil’s  luck  to  you ! — 
high  hanging  to  you! — hard  feeding  to  you! — a 
short  coorse  to  you ! ” are  all  pretty  intense,  and 
generally  used  under  provocation  and  passion. 
In  these  cases  the  curses  just  mentioned  are 
directed  immediately  to  the  offensive  object,  and 
there  certainly  is  no  want  of  the  malus  animus 
to  give  them  energy.  It  would  be  easy  to  mul- 
tiply the  imprecations  belonging  to  this  class 
among  the  peasantry,  but  the  task  is  rather  un- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


105 


pleasant.  There  are  a few,  however,  which,  in 
consequence  of  their  ingenuity,  we  cannot  pass 
over:  they  are,  in  sooth,  studies  for  the  swearer. 
“ May  you  never  die  till  you  see  your  own 
funeral!”  is  a very  beautiful  specimen  of  the 
periphrasis : it  simply  means,  may  you  be  hanged ; 
for  he  who  is  hanged  is  humorously  said  to  be 
favoured  with  a view  of  that  sombre  spectacle, 
by  which  they  mean  the  crowd  that  attends  an 
execution.  To  the  same  purpose  is,  ‘‘  May  you 
die  wid  a caper  in  your  heel!  ” — “ May  you  die 
in  your  pumps!” — “May  your  last  dance  be  a 
hornpipe  on  the  air!  ” These  arc  all  emblematic 
of  hanging,  and  are  uttered  sometimes  in  jest, 
and  occasionally  in  earnest.  “ May  the  grass 
grow  before  your  door!”  is  highly  imaginative 
and  poetical.  Nothing,  indeed,  can  present  the 
mind  with  a stronger  or  more  picturesque  emblem 
of  desolation  and  ruin.  Its  malignity  is  terrible. 

There  are  also  mock  imprecations  as  well  as 
mock  oaths.  Of  this  character  are,  “ The  devil 
go  with  you  an’  sixpence,  an’  thin  you’ll  want 
neither  money  nor  company!”  This  humorous 
and  considerate  curse  is  generally  confined  to  the 
female  sex.  When  Paddy  happens  to  be  in  a 
romping  mood,  and  teases  his  sweetheart  too 
much,  she  usually  utters  it  with  a countenance 
combating  with  smiles  and  frowns,  whilst  she 
stands  in  the  act  of  pinning  up  her  dishevelled 
hair ; her  cheek,  particularly  the  one  next  Paddy, 
deepened  into  a becoming  blush. 

“Bad  scran  to  you!  ” is  another  form  seldom 
used  in  anger;  it  is  the  same  as  “ Hard  feeding 


106 


IRELAND 


to  you!  ” “ Bad  win’  to  you!  ” is  ‘‘  111  health  to 

you!  ” it  is  nearly  the  same  as  “ Consumin’  (con- 
sumption) to  you!”  Two  other  imprecations 
come  under  this  head,  which  we  will  class  to- 
gether, because  they  are  counterparts  of  each 
other,  with  this  difference,  that  one  of  them  is 
the  most  subtilely  and  intensely  withering  in  its 
purport  that  can  well  be  conceived.  The  one  is 
that  common  curse,  ‘‘  Bad  ’cess  to  you!  ” that  is, 
bad  success  to  you:  we  may  identify  it  with 
“Hard  fortune  to  you!”  The  other  is  a keen 
one,  indeed — Sweet  bad  luck  to  you!”  Now, 
whether  we  consider  the  epithet  sweet  as  bitterly 
ironical,  or  deem  it  as  a wish  that  prosperity  may 
harden  the  heart  to  the  accomplishment  of  future 
damnation,  as  in  the  case  of  Dives,  we  must  in 
either  sense  grant  that  it  is  an  oath  of  powerful 
hatred  and  venom.  Occasionally  the  curse  of 
“Bad  luck  to  you!”  produces  an  admirable  re- 
tort, which  is  pretty  common.  When  one  man 
applies  it  to  another,  he  is  answered  with  “ Good 
luck  to  you,  thin;  but  may  neither  of  thim  ever 
happen/^ 

“ Six  eggs  to  you,  an’  half-a-dozen  o’  them 
rotten ! ” — like  “ The  devil  go  with  you  an’  six- 
pence ! ” is  another  of  those  pleasantries  which 
mostly  occur  in  the  good-humoured  badinage  be- 
tween the  sexes.  It  implies  disappointment. 

There  is  a species  of  imprecation  prevalent 
among  Irishmen  which  we  may  term  neutral.  It 
is  ended  by  the  word  hit,  and  merely  results  from 
a habit  of  swearing  where  there  is  no  malignity 
of  purpose.  An  Irishman,  when  corroborating 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


107 


an  assertion,  however  tme  or  false,  will  often  say, 
“ Bad  luck  to  the  bit  but  it  is;  ” — “ Divil  lire  the 
bit  but  it’s  thruth!  ” — “ Damn  the  bit  but  it  is!  ” 
and  so  on.  In  this  form  the  mind  is  not  moved, 
nor  the  passions  excited:  it  is  therefore  probably 
the  most  insipid  of  all  their  imprecations. 

Some  of  the  most  dreadful  maledictions  are  to 
be  heard  among  the  confirmed  mendicants  of  Ire- 
land. The  wit,  the  gall,  and  the  poetry  of  these 
are  uncommon.  “ May  you  melt  olf  the  earth 
like  snow  off  the  ditch!  ” is  one  of  a high  order 
and  intense  malignity;  but  it  is  not  exclusively 
confined  to  mendicants,  although  they  form  that 
class  among  which  it  is  most  prevalent.  Nearly 
related  to  this  is,  “ May  you  melt  like  butther 
before  a summer  sun!”  These  are,  indeed,  es- 
sentially poetical ; they  present  the  mind  with  ap- 
propriate imagery,  and  exhibit  a comparison  per- 
fectly just  and  striking.  The  former  we  think 
unrivalled. 

Some  of  the  Irish  imprecations  would  appear 
to  have  come  down  to  us  from  the  Ordeals.  Of 
this  class,  probably,  are  the  following:  “ May  this 
be  poison  to  me!  ” — “ May  I be  roasted  on  red- 
hot  iron!  ” Others  of  them,  from  their  boldness 
of  metaphor,  seem  to  be  of  Oriental  descent. 
One  expression,  indeed,  is  strikingly  so.  When 
a deep  offence  is  offered  to  an  Irishman,  under 
such  peculiar  circumstances  that  he  cannot  im- 
mediately retaliate,  he  usually  rephes  to  his 
enemy — “ You’ll  sup  sorrow  for  this!  ” — “ You’ll 
curse  the  day  it  happened!” — “I’ll  make  you 
rub  your  heels  together!”  All  these  figurative 


108 


IRELAND 


denunciations  are  used  for  the  purpose  of  inti- 
mating the  pain  and  agony  he  will  compel  his 
enemy  to  suffer. 

We  cannot  omit  a form  of  imprecation  for 
good,  which  is  also  habitual  among  the  peasantry 
of  Ireland.  It  is  certainly  harmless,  and  argues 
benevolence  of  heart.  We  mean  such  expres- 
sions as  the  following:  “ Salvation  to  me! — May  I 
never  do  harm! — May  I never  do  an  ill  turn! — 
May  I never  sin ! ’’  These  are  generally  used  by 
men  who  are  blameless  and  peaceable  in  their  lives 
— simple  and  well-disposed  in  their  intercourse 
with  the  world. 

At  the  head  of  those  Irish  imprecations  which 
are  dreaded  by  the  people,  the  Excommunication, 
of  course,  holds  the  first  and  most  formidable 
place.  In  the  eyes  of  men  of  sense  it  is  as  absurd 
as  it  is  illiberal;  but  to  the  ignorant  and  super- 
stitious, who  look  upon  it  as  anything  but  a 
hrutum  fulmen,  it  is  terrible  indeed. 

Next  in  order  are  the  curses  of  priests  in  their 
private  capacity,  pilgrims,  mendicants,  and 
idiots.  Of  those  also  Paddy  entertains  a whole- 
some dread ; a circumstance  which  the  pilgrim  and 
mendicant  turn  with  great  judgment  to  their 
own  account.  Many  a legend  and  anecdote  do 
such  chroniclers  relate,  when  the  family,  with 
whom  they  rest  for  the  night,  are  all  seated 
around  the  winter  hearth.  These  are  often  illus- 
trative of  the  baneful  effects  of  the  poor  man’s 
curse.  Of  course  they  produce  a proper  impres- 
sion; and,  accordingly,  Paddy  avoids  offending 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


109 


such  persons  in  any  way  that  might  bring  him 
under  their  displeasure. 

A certain  class  of  curses  much  dreaded  in  Ire- 
land are  those  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan. 
There  is,  however,  something  touching  and  beau- 
tiful in  this  fear  of  injuring  the  sorrowful  and 
unprotected.  It  is,  we  are  happy  to  say,  a be- 
coming and  prominent  feature  in  Paddy’s  char- 
acter; for,  to  do  him  justice  in  his  virtues  as  w^ell 
as  in  his  vices,  we  repeat  that  he  cannot  be  sur- 
passed in  his  humanity  to  the  lonely  widow  and 
her  helpless  orphans.  He  will  collect  a number 
of  his  friends,  and  proceed  with  them  in  a body 
to  plant  her  bit  of  potato  ground,  to  reap  her 
oats,  to  draw  home  her  turf,  or  secure  her  hay. 
Nay,  he  will  beguile  her  of  her  sorrows  with  a 
natural  sympathy  and  delicacy  that  do  him  hon- 
our; his  heart  is  open  to  her  complaints,  and  his 
hand  ever  extended  to  assist  her. 

There  is  a strange  opinion  to  be  found  in  Ire- 
land upon  the  subject  of  curses.  The  peasantry 
think  that  a curse,  no  matter  how  uttered,  will 
fall  on  sojnething;  but  that  it  depends  upon  the 
person  against  whom  it  is  directed,  whether  or  not 
it  will  descend  on  him.  A curse,  we  have  heard 
them  say,  will  rest  for  seven  years  in  the  air, 
ready  to  alight  upon  the  head  of  the  person  who 
provoked  the  malediction.  It  hovers  over  him, 
like  a kite  over  its  prey,  watching  the  moment 
when  he  may  be  abandoned  by  his  guardian 
angel:  if  this  occurs,  it  shoots  with  the  rapidity 
of  a meteor  on  his  head,  and  clings  to  him  in  the 


9 


no  IRELAND 

shape  of  illness,  temptation,  or  some  other  calam- 
ity. 

They  think,  however,  that  the  blessing  of  one 
person  may  cancel  the  curse  of  another ; but  this 
opinion  does  not  affect  the  theory  we  have  just 
mentioned.  When  a man  experiences  an  un- 
pleasant accident,  they  will  say,  “ He  has  had 
some  poor  body’s  curse;”  and,  on  the  contrary^ 
when  he  narrowly  escapes  it,  they  say,  “ He  has 
had  some  poor  body’s  blessing.” 

There  is  no  country  in  which  the  phrases  of 
good-will  and  affection  are  so  strong  as  in 
Ireland.  The  Irish  language  actually  flows 
with  the  milk  and  honey  of  love  and  friendship. 
Sweet  and  palatable  is  it  to  the  other  sex,  and 
sweetly  can  Paddy,  with  his  deluding  ways,  ad- 
minister it  to  them  from  the  top  of  his  melliflu- 
ous tongue,  as  a dove  feeds  her  young,  or  as  a 
kind  mother  her  babe,  shaping  with  her  own 
pretty  mouth  every  morsel  of  the  delicate  viands 
before  it  goes  into  that  of  the  infant.  In  this 
manner  does  Paddy,  seated  behind  a ditch,  of 
a bright  Sunday,  when  he  ought  to  be  at  Mass, 
feed  up  some  innocent  girl,  not  with  “ false 
music,”  but  with  sweet  words;  for  nothing  more 
musical  or  melting  than  his  brogue  ever  dissolved 
a female  heart.  Indeed,  it  is  of  the  danger  to 
be  apprehended  from  the  melody  of  his  voice, 
that  the  admirable  and  appropriate  proverb 
speaks;  for  when  he  addresses  his  sweetheart, 
under  circumstances  that  justify  suspicion,  it  is 
generally  said — “Paddy’s  feedin’  her  up  wid 
false  music.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


111 


What  language  has  a phrase  equal  in  heauty 
and  tenderness  to  cuslila  ma  chree — pulse  of  my 
heart?  Can  it  be  paralleled  in  the  whole  range 
of  all  that  are,  ever  were,  or  ever  will  be  spoken, 
for  music,  sweetness,  and  a knowledge  of  anat- 
omy? If  Paddy  is  unrivalled  at  swearing,  he 
fairly  throws  the  world  beliind  him  at  the 
blarney.  In  professing  friendship,  and  making 
love,  give  him  but  a taste  of  the  native j,  and  he 
is  a walking  honey-comb,  that  every  woman  who 
sees  liim  wishes  to  have  a lick  at;  and  Heaven 
knows,  that  frequently,  at  all  times,  and  in  all 
places,  does  he  get  himself  licked  on  their 
account. 

Another  expression  of  peculiar  force  is  vich 
machree — or,  son  of  my  heart.  This  is  not  only 
elegant,  but  affectionate,  beyond  almost  any 
other  phrase  except  the  foregoing.  It  is,  in  a 
sense  somewhat  different  from  that  in  which  the 
philosophical  poet  has  used  it,  a beautiful  eom- 
ment  upon  the  sentiment  of  “ the  child’s  the 
father  of  the  man,”  uttered  by  the  great,  we 
might  almost  say,  the  glorious,  Wordsworth. 

We  have  seen  many  a youth,  on  more  occa- 
sions than  one,  standing  in  profound  affliction 
over  the  dead  body  of  his  aged  father,  exclaim- 
ing, Ahir^  vick  machree — vick  machree — wuil 
thu  marra  wo"um?  Wuil  thu  marra  wo'um? 
Father,  son  of  my  heart,  son  of  my  heart,  art 
thou  dead  from  me — art  thou  dead  from  me?” 
An  expression,  we  think,  under  any  circum- 
stances, not  to  be  surpassed  in  the  intensity  of 
domestic  affection  which  it  expresses;  but  under 


112 


IRELAND 


those  alluded  to,  we  consider  it  altogether  ele- 
vated in  exquisite  and  poetic  beauty  above  the 
most  powerful  symbols  of  Oriental  imagery. 

A third  phrase  peculiar  to  love  and  affection, 
is  Manim  asthee  hu — or.  My  soul’s  within 
you.”  Every  person  acquainted  with  languages 
knows  how  much  an  idiom  suffers  by  a literal 
translation.  How  beautiful,  then,  how  tender 
and  powerful,  must  those  short  expressions  be, 
uttered,  too,  with  a fervour  of  manner  peculiar 
to  a deeply  feeling  people,  when,  even  after  a 
literal  translation,  they  carry  so  much  of  their 
tenderness  and  energy  into  a language  whose 
genius  is  cold  when  compared  to  the  glowing 
beauty  of  the  Irish. 

Mavourneen  dheelish,  too,  is  only  a short 
phrase,  but,  coming  warm  and  mellowed  from 
Paddy’s  lips  into  the  ear  of  his  colleen  dhas,  it  is 
a perfect  spell — a sweet  murmur,  to  which  the 
lenis  susurrus  of  the  Hybla  bees  is,  with  all  their 
honey,  jarring  discord.  How  tame  is  “ My 
sweet  darling,”  its  literal  translation,  compared 
to  its  soft  and  lulling  intonations.  There  is  a 
dissolving,  entrancing,  beguiling,  deluding,  flat- 
tering, insinuating,  coaxing,  winning,  inveigling, 
roguish,  palavering,  come-over-ing,  comedher- 
ing,  consenting,  blarneying,  killing,  willing, 
charm  in  it,  worth  all  the  philtres  that  ever  the 
gross  knavery  of  a withered  alchymist  imposed 
upon  the  credulity  of  those  who  inhabit  the  other 
nations  of  the  earth — for  we  don’t  read  that 
these  shrivelled  philtre-mongers  ever  prospered 
in  Ireland, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


113 


No,  no — let  Paddy  alone.  If  he  hates  in- 
tensely, and  effectually,  he  loves  intensely,  com- 
prehensively, and  gallantly.  To  love  with  power 
is  a proof  of  a large  soul,  and  to  hate  well  is, 
according  to  the  great  moralist,  a thing  in  itself 
to  be  loved.  Ireland  is,  therefore,  through  all 
its  sects,  parties,  and  religions,  an  amicable  na- 
tion. Their  affections  are,  indeed,  so  vivid,  that 
they  scruple  not  sometimes  to  kill  each  other  with 
kindness:  but  we  hope  that  the  march  of  love 
and  friendship  will  not  only  keep  pace  with,  but 
outstrip,  the  march  of  intellect. 

Peter  Connell  was  for  many  years  of  his 
life  a pattern  and  a proverb  for  industry  and 
sobriety.  He  first  began  the  world  as  keeper 
of  a shebeen-house  at  the  cross-roads,  about  four 
miles  from  the  town  of  Bally  poteen.  He  w^as 
decidedly  an  honest  man  to  his  neighbours,  but 
a knave  to  excisemen,  whom  he  hated  by  a kind 
of  instinct  that  he  had,  which  prompted  him,  in 
order  to  satisfy  his  conscience,  to  render  them 
every  practicable  injury  wdthin  the  compass  of 
his  ingenuity.  Shebeen-house  keepers  and  ex- 
cisemen have  been,  time  out  of  mind,  destructive 
of  each  other;  the  exciseman  pouncing  like  a 
beast  or  bird  of  prey  upon  the  shebeen  man  and 
his  illicit  spirits;  the  shebeen  man  staving  in  the 
exciseman,  like  a barrel  of  doublings,  by  a knock 
from  behind  a hedge,  which  sometimes  sent  him 
to  that  world  which  is  emphatically  called  the 
world  of  spirits.  For  this,  it  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  the  shebeen  man  was  hanged;  but  as 
III— 8 


114 


IRELAND 


Ills  death  only  multiplied  that  of  the  excisemen 
in  a geometrical  ratio,  the  sharp-scented  frater- 
nity resolved,  if  possible,  not  to  risk  their  lives, 
either  by  exposing  themselves  to  the  necessity 
of  travelling  by  night,  or  prosecuting  by  day. 
In  this  they  acted  wisely  and  prudently;  fewer 
of  the  unfortunate  peasantry  were  shot  in  their 
rencounters  with  the  yeomanry  or  military  on 
such  occasions,  and  the  retaliations  became  by 
degrees  less  frequent,  until,  at  length,  the  mur- 
der of  a gauger  became  a rare  occurrence  in  the 
country. 

Peter,  before  his  marriage,  had  wrought  as 
labouring  servant  to  a man  who  kept  two  or 
three  private  stills  in  those  caverns  among  the 
remote  mountains,  to  which  the  gauger  never 
thought  of  penetrating,  because  he  supposed  that 
no  human  enterprise  would  have  ever  dreamt  of 
advancing  farther  into  them  than  appeared  to 
him  to  be  practicable.  In  this  he  was  frequently 
mistaken;  for  though  the  still-house  was  in  many 
cases  inaccessible  to  horses,  yet  by  the  contrivance 
of  slipes — a kind  of  sledge — a dozen  men  could 
draw  a couple  of  sacks  of  barley  with  less  trouble, 
and  at  a quicker  pace,  than  if  horses  only  had 
been  employed.  By  this,  and  many  other  similar 
contrivances,  the  peasantry  were  often  able  to 
carry  on  the  work  of  private  distillation  in  places 
so  distant,  that  few  persons  could  suspect  them 
as  likely  to  be  chosen  for  such  purposes.  The 
uncommon  personal  strength,  the  daring  spirit, 
and  great  adroitness  of  Peter  Connell,  rendered 
him  a very  valuable  acquisition  to  his  master  in 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


115 


the  course  of  his  illicit  occupations.  Peter  was, 
in  addition  to  his  other  qualities,  sober  and  ready- 
witted,  so  that  whenever  the  gauger  made  his 
appearance,  his  expedients  to  baffle  him  were 
often  inimitable.  Those  expedients  did  not,  how- 
ever, always  arise  from  the  exigency  of  the  mo- 
ment; they  were  often  deliberately,  and  with 
much  exertion  of  ingenuity,  planned  by  the  pro- 
prietors and  friends  of  such  establishments,  per- 
haps for  weeks  before  the  gauger’s  visit  occurred. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  as  the  gauger’s  object 
was  to  take  them,  if  possible,  by  surprise,  it  fre- 
quently happened  that  his  appearance  was  as 
unexpected  as  it  was  unwelcome.  It  was  then 
that  the  prompt  ingenuity  of  the  people  was 
fully  seen,  felt,  and  understood  by  the  baffled 
exciseman,  who  too  often  had  just  grounds  for 
bitterly  cursing  their  talent  at  outwitting  him. 

Peter  served  his  master,  as  a kind  of  superin- 
tendent in  such  places,  until  he  gained  the  full 
knowledge  of  distilling,  according  to  the  proc- 
esses used  by  the  most  popular  adepts  in  the  art. 
Having  acquired  this,  he  set  up  as  a professor, 
and  had  excellent  business.  In  the  meantime, 
he  had  put  together  by  degrees  a small  purse  of 
money,  to  the  amount  of  about  twenty  guineas, — 
no  inconsiderable  sum  for  a young  Irishman  who 
intends  to  begin  the  world  on  his  own  account. 
He  accordingly  married,  and,  as  the  influence 
of  a wife  is  usually  not  to  be  controlled  during 
the  honey-moon,  Mrs.  Connell  prevailed  on 
Peter  to  relinquish  his  trade  of  distiller,  and  ta 
embrace  some  other  mode  of  life  that  might  not 


116 


IRELAND 


render  their  living  so  much  asunder  necessary. 
Peter  suffered  himself  to  be  prevailed  upon,  and 
promised  to  have  nothing  more  to  do  with  private 
distillation,  as  a distiller.  One  of  the  greatest 
curses  attending  this  lawless  business,  is  the  idle 
and  irregular  habit  of  life  which  it  gradually  in- 
duces. Peter  could  not  now  relish  the  labour  of  an 
agriculturist,  to  which  he  had  been  bred,  and  yet 
he  was  too  prudent  to  sit  down  and  draw  his  own 
and  his  wife’s  support  from  so  exhaustible  a 
source  as  twenty  guineas.  Two  or  three  days 
passed,  during  which  “ he  cudgelled  his  brains,” 
to  use  his  own  expression,  in  plans  for  future 
subsistence;  two  or  three  consultations  were  held 
with  Ellish,  in  which  their  heads  were  laid  to- 
gether, and,  as  it  was  still  the  honey-moon,  the 
subject-matter  of  the  consultation,  of  course,  was 
completely  forgotten.  Before  the  expiration  of 
a second  month,  however,  they  were  able  to  think 
of  many  other  things,  in  addition  to  the  fondlings 
and  endearments  of  a new-married  couple.  Pe- 
ter was  every  day  becoming  more  his  own  man, 
and  Ellish  by  degrees  more  her  own  woman. 
“ The  purple  light  of  love,”  which  had  changed 
Peter’s  red  head  into  a rich  auburn,  and  his  swivel 
eye  into  a loiowing  wink,  exceedingly  irresistible 
in  his  bachelorship,  as  he  made  her  believe,  to  the 
country  girls — had  passed  away,  taking  the 
aforesaid  auburn  along  with  it,  and  leaving  noth- 
ing but  the  genuine  carrot  behind,  Peter,  too, 
on  opening  his  eyes  one  morning  about  the  be- 
ginning of  the  third  month,  perceived  that  his 
wife  was,  after  all,  nothing  more  than  a thump- 


TllAlTS  AND  STORIES 


117 


ing  red-cheeked  wench,  with  good  eyes,  a mouth 
rather  large,  and  a nose  very  much  resembling, 
in  its  curve,  the  seat  of  a saddle,  allowing  the  top 
to  correspond  with  the  pummel. 

“ Pether,”  said  she,  “ it’s  like  a dhrame  to  me 
that  you’re  neglectin’  your  business,  alanna.” 

“ Is  it  you,  beauty?  but,  may  be,  you’d  first 
point  out  to  me  what  business,  barrin’  buttherin’ 
up  yourself,  I have  to  mind,  you  phanix  bright?  ” 

“Quit  yourself,  Pether!  it’s  time  for  you  to 
give  up  your  ould  ways;  you  caught  one  bird 
wid  them,  an’  that’s  enough.  What  do  you  in- 
tind  to  do?  It’s  full  time  for  you  to  be  lookin’ 
about  you.” 

“ Lookin’  about  me!  What  do  you  mane, 
EUish?” 

“ The  dickens  a bit  o’  me  thought  of  it,”  re- 
plied the  wife,  laughing  at  the  unintentional  allu- 
sion to  the  circumspect  character  of  Peter’s  eyes, 
— “upon  my  faix,  I didn’t — ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

“ Why,  thin,  but  you’re  full  o’  your  fun,  sure 
enough,  if  that’s  what  you’re  at.  Maybe,  avour- 
neen,  if  I had  looked  right  afore  me,  as  I ought 
to  do,  it’s  Katty  Murray  an’  her  snug  farm  I’d 
have,  instead  of  ” — 

Peter  hesitated.  The  rapid  feelings  of  a 
woman,  and  an  Irishwoman,  quick  and  tender, 
had  come  forth  and  subdued  him.  She  had  not 
voluntarily  alluded  to  his  eyes;  but  on  seeing 
Peter  offended,  she  immediately  expressed  that 
sorrow  and  submission  which  are  most  powerful 
when  accompanied  by  innocence,  and  when 
meekly  assumed,  to  pacify  rather  than  to  con- 


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vince.  A tear  started  to  her  eye,  and  with  a 
voice  melted  into  unaffected  tenderness,  she  ad- 
dressed him,  but  he  scarcely  gave  her  time  to 
speak. 

“No,  avourneen,  no,  I won’t  say  what  I was 
goin’  to  mintion.  I won’t  indeed,  Ellish,  dear; 
an’  forgive  me  for  woundin’  your  feelins,  alanna 
dhas,^^  Hell  resave  her  an’  her  farm!  I dunna 
what  put  her  into  my  head  at  all ; but  I thought 
you  wor  jokin’  me  about  my  eyes:  an’  sure  if 
you  war,  acushla,  that’s  no  rason  that  I’d  not 
allow  you  to  do  that  an’  more  wid  your  own 
Pether.  Give  me  a slewsther/^  agrah — a sweet 
one,  now!  ” 

He  then  laid  his  mouth  to  hers,  and  immedi- 
ately a sound,  nearly  resembling  a pistol-shot, 
was  heard  through  every  part  of  the  house.  It 
was,  in  fact,  a kiss  upon  a scale  of  such  magni- 
tude, that  the  Emperor  of  Morocco  might  not 
blush  to  be  charged  with  it.  A reconciliation 
took  place,  and  in  due  time  it  was  determined 
that  Peter,  as  he  understood  poteen,  should  open 
a shebeen-house. 

The  moment  this  resolution  was  made,  the  wife 
kept  coaxing  him,  until  he  took  a small  house  at 
the  cross-roads  before  alluded  to,  where,  in  the 
course  of  a short  time,  he  was  established,  if  not  in 
his  own  line,  yet  in  a mode  of  life  approximating 
to  it  as  nearly  as  the  inclination  of  Ellish  would 
permit.  The  cabin  which  they  occupied  had  a 
kitchen  in  the  middle,  and  a room  at  each  end 
of  it,  in  one  of  which  was  their  own  humble  chaff 
bed,  with  its  blue  quilted  drugget  cover;  in  the 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


119 


other  stood  a couple  of  small  tables,  some  stools, 
a short  form,  and  one  chair,  being  a present  from 
his  father-in-law.  These  constituted  Peter’s 
whole  establishment,  so  far  as  it  defied  the 
gauger.  To  this  we  must  add  a five-gallon  keg 
of  spirits  hid  in  the  garden,  and  a roll  of  smug- 
gled tobacco.  From  the  former  he  bottled,  over 
night,  as  much  as  was  usually  drank  the  follow- 
ing day;  and  from  the  tobacco,  which  was  also 
kept  under  ground,  he  cut,  with  the  same  caution, 
as  much  as  to-morrow’s  exigencies  might  require. 
This  he  kept  in  his  coat  pocket,  a place  where 
the  gauger  would  never  think  of  searching  for  it, 
divided  into  halfpenny  and  pennyworths,  ounces 
or  half-ounces,  according  as  it  might  be  required ; 
and  as  he  had  it  without  duty,  the  liberal  spirit 
in  which  he  dealt  it  out  to  his  neighbours  soon 
brought  him  a large  increase  of  custom. 

Peter’s  wife  was  an  excellent  manager,  and 
he  himself  a pleasant,  good-humoured  man,  full 
of  whim  and  inoffensive  mirth.  His  powers  of 
amusement  were  of  a high  order,  considering  his 
station  in  life  and  his  want  of  education.  These 
qualities  contributed,  in  a great  degree,  to  bring 
both  the  young  and  the  old  to  his  house  during 
the  long  winter  nights,  in  order  to  hear  the  fine 
racy  humour  with  which  he  related  his  frequent 
adventures  and  battles  with  excisemen.  In  the 
summer  evenings,  he  usually  engaged  a piper  or 
fiddler,  and  had  a dance,  a contrivance  by  which 
he  not  only  rendered  himself  popular,  but  in- 
creased his  business. 

In  this  mode  of  life,  the  greatest  source  of 


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anxiety  to  Peter  and  Ellish  was  the  difficulty  of 
not  offending  their  friends  by  refusing  to  give 
them  credit.  Many  plans,  were,  with  great  skill 
and  forethought,  devised  to  obviate  this  evil;  but 
all  failed.  A short  board  was  first  procured,  on 
which  they  got  written  with  chalk — 

“ No  credit  giv’n — barrin’  a thrifle  to  Pether’s  friends.” 

Before  a week  passed,  after  this  intimation, 
the  number  of  “ Pether’s  friends  ” increased  so 
rapidly,  that  neither  he  nor  Ellish  knew  the  half 
of  them.  Every  scamp  in  the  parish  was  hand 
and  glove  with  him:  the  drinking  tribe,  partic- 
ularly, became  desperately  attached  to  him  and 
Ellish.  Peter  was  naturally  kind-hearted,  and 
found  that  his  firmest  resolutions  too  often  gave 
way  before  the  open  flattery  with  which  he  was 
assailed.  He  then  changed  his  hand,  and  left 
Ellish  to  bear  the  brunt  of  their  blarney.  When- 
ever any  person  or  persons  were  seen  approach- 
ing the  house,  Peter,  if  he  had  reason  to  suspect 
an  attack  upon  his  indulgence,  prepared  himself 
for  a retreat.  He  kept  his  eye  to  the  window, 
and  if  they  turned  from  the  direct  line  of  the 
road,  he  immediately  slipped  into  bed,  and  lay 
close  in  order  to  escape  them.  In  the  meantime 
they  enter. 

“God  save  all  here!  Ellish,  agra  machree, 
how  are  you?  ” 

“God  save  you  kindly!  Faix,  I’m  middlin’, 
I thank  you,  Condy:  how  is  yourself,  an’  all  at 
home?” 

“ Devil  a heartier,  barrin’  my  father,  that’s 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


121 


touched  wid  a loss  of  appetite  afther  his  meals — 
ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

“ Musha,  the  dickens  be  an  you,  Condy,  but 
you’re  your  father’s  son,  any  way;  the  best  com- 
pany in  Euro23e  is  the  same  man.  Throth, 
whether  you’re  jokin’  or  not,  I’d  be  sarry  to  hear 
of  anything  to  his  disadvantage,  dacent  man. 
Boys,  won’t  ye  go  down  to  the  other  room?  ” 

“ Go  way  wid  yez,  boys,  till  I spake  to  Ellish 
here  about  the  affairs  o’  the  nation.  Why, 
Ellish,  you  stand  the  cut  all  to  pieces.  By  the 
contints  o’  the  book,  you  do;  Pether  doesn’t  stand 
it  half  so  well.  How  is  he,  the  thief?  ” 

“ Throth,  he’s  not  well  to-day,  in  regard  of  a 
smotherin’  about  the  heart  he  tuck  this  mornin’ 
afther  his  breakfast.  He  jist  laid  himself  on  the 
bed  a while,  to  see  if  it  would  go  off  of  him — 
God  be  praised  for  all  his  marcies  1 ” 

“ Thin,  upon  my  solevstiion,  I’m  sarry  to  hear 
it,  and  so  will  all  at  home,  for  there’s  not  in  the 
parish  we’re  sittin’  in  a couple  that  our  family 
has  a greater  regard  an’  friendship  for,  than  him 
an’  yourself.  Faix,  my  modher,  no  longer  ago 
than  Friday  night  last,  argued  down  Bartle 
Meegan’s  throath,  that  you  and  Biddy  ^lartin 
war  the  two  portliest  weemen  that  comes  into 
the  chapel.  God  forgive  myself,  I was  near 
quarrelhn’  wid  Bartle,  on  the  head  of  it,  bekase 
I tuck  my  modher’s  part,  as  I had  good  right  to 
do.” 

“ Thrath,  I’m  thankful  to  you  both,  Condy, 
for  your  kindness.” 

“ Oh,  the  sarra  taste  o’  kindness  was  in  it  at 


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all,  Ellish,  ’twas  only  the  truth;  an’  as  long  as 
I live,  I’ll  stand  up  for  that.” 

“ Arrah,  how  is  your  aunt  down  at  Carntall?  ” 
“ Indeed  thin  but  middhn’,  not  gettin’  her 
health:  she’ll  soon  give  the  crow  a puddin’,  any 
way;  thin,  Ellish,  you  thief,  I’m  in  for  the  yallow 
boys.  Do  you  know  thim  that  came  in  wid  me?  ” 
“ Why  thin  I can’t  say  I do.  Who  are  they, 
Condy? ” 

“ Why  one  o’  them’s  a bachelor  to  my  sisther 
Norah,  a very  dacent  boy,  indeed — him  wid  the 
frieze  jock  upon  him,  an’  the  buckskin  breeches. 
The  other  three’s  from  Teernabraighera  beyant. 
They’re  related  to  my  brother-in-law,  Mick  Dil- 
lon, by  his  first  wife’s  brother-in-law’s  uncle. 
They’re  come  to  this  neighbourhood  till  the  ’Sizes, 
bad  luck  to  them,  goes  over;  for  you  see,  they’re 
in  a little  throuble.” 

“ The  Lord  grant  them  safe  out  of  it,  poor 
boys!” 

“ I brought  them  up  here  to  treat  them,  poor 
fellows;  an’,  Ellish,  avourneen,  you  must  credit 
me  for  whatsomever  we  may  have.  The  thruth 
is,  you  see,  that  when  we  left  home,  none  of  us 
had  any  notion  of  drinkin’,  or  I’d  a put  somethin’ 
in  my  pocket,  so  that  I’m  taken  at  an  average. — 
Bud-an’-age!  how  is  little  Dan?  Sowl,  Ellish, 
that  goorsoon,  when  he  grows  up,  will  be  a credit 
to  you.  I don’t  think  there’s  a finer  child  in 
Europe  of  his  age,  so  there  isn’t.” 

‘‘  Indeed,  he’s  a good  child,  Condy.  But, 
Condy,  avick,  about  givin’  credit: — ^by  thim  five 
Grasses,  if  I could  give  score  to  any  boy  in  the 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


123 


parish,  it  ’ud  be  to  yourself.  It  was  only  last 
night  that  I made  a promise  against  doin’  sich  a 
thing  for  man  or  mortual.  We’re  a’most  broken 
an’  harrish’d  out  o’  house  an’  home  by  it;  an’ 
what’s  more,  Condy,  we  intend  to  give  up  the 
business.  The  landlord’s  at  us  every  day  for  his 
rint,  an’  we  owe  for  the  two  last  kegs  we  got,  but 
hasn’t  a rap  to  meet  aither  o’  tliim;  an’  enough 
due  to  us  if  we  could  get  it  together : an’  whisper, 
Condy,  atween  ourselves,  that’s  what  ails  Pether, 
although  he  doesn’t  wish  to  let  an  to  any  one 
about  it.” 

“ Well,  but  you  know  I’m  safe,  Ellish?  ” 

‘‘  I know  you  are,  avounieen,  as  the  bank 
itself ; an’  should  have  what  you  want  wid  a heart 
an’  a half,  only  for  the  promise  I made  an  my 
two  knees  last  night,  aginst  givin’  credit  to  man 
or  woman.  Why  the  dickens  didn’t  you  come 
yistherday?  ” 

“ Didn’t  I tell  you,  woman  alive,  that  it  was 
by  accident,  an’  that  I wished  to  sarve  the  house, 
that  we  came  at  all.  Come,  come,  Ellish;  don’t 
disgrace  me  afore  my  sisther’s  bachelor  an’  the 
sthrange  boys  that’s  to  the  fore.  By  this  staff 
in  my  hand,  I wouldn’t  for  the  best  cow  in  our 
byre  be  put  to  the  blush  afore  thim;  an’  besides, 
there’s  a cleeveen^^  atween  your  family  an’ 
ours.” 

“ Condy,  avourneen,  say  no  more : if  you  were 
fed  from  the  same  breast  wdd  me,  I couldn’t,  nor 
wouldn’t  break  my  promise.  I wouldn’t  have 
the  sin  of  it  an  me  for  the  wealth  o’  the  three 
kingdoms.” 


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“ Bedad,  you’re  a quare  woman;  an’  only  that 
my  regard  for  you  is  great  entirely,  we  would 
be  two,  Ellish;  but  I know  you’re  dacent 
still.” 

He  then  left  her,  and  joined  his  friends  in  the 
little  room  that  was  appropriated  for  drinking, 
where,  with  a great  deal  of  mirth,  he  related  the 
failure  of  the  plan  they  had  formed  for  outwit- 
ting Peter  and  Ellish. 

“ Boys,”  said  he,  “ she’s  too  many  for  us!  St. 
P ether  himself  wouldn’t  make  a hand  of  her. 
Faix,  she’s  a cute  one.  I palavered  her  at  the 
rate  of  a hunt,  an’  she  ped  me  back  in  my  own 
coin,  wid  dacent  intherest — but  no  whisky! — 
Now  to  take  a rise  out  o’  Pether.  Jist  sit  where 
ye  are,  till  I come  back.” 

He  then  left  them  enjoying  the  intended 
“ spree,”  and  went  back  to  Ellish. 

“Well,  I’m  sure,  Ellish,  if  any  one  had  tuck 
their  book  oath  that  you’d  refuse  my  father’s 
son  sich  a thrifle,  I wouldn’t  believe  them.  It’s 
not  wid  Pether’s  knowledge  you  do  it,  I’ll  be 
bound.  But  bad  as  you  thrated  us,  sure  we  must 
see  how  the  poor  fellow  is,  at  any  rate.” 

As  he  spoke,  and  before  Ellish  had  time  to 
prevent  him,  he  pressed  into  the  room  where 
Peter  lay. 

“ Why,  tare  alive,  Pether,  is  it  in  bed  you  are, 
at  this  hour  o’  the  day?  ” 

“Eh?  Who’s  that— who’s  that?  oh!” 

“ Why  thin,  the  sarra  lie  undher  you,  is  that 
the  way  wid  you?  ” 

“Oh!— oh!  Eh?  Is  that  Condy?  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


T25 


“ All  that’s  to  the  fore  of  him.  What’s  asthray 
wid  you,  man  alive?  ” 

“ Throth,  Condy,  I don’t  know,  rightly.  I 
went  out,  wantin’  my  coat,  about  a week  ago,  an’ 
got  cowld  in  the  small  o’  the  back:  I’ve  a pain  in 
it  ever  since.  Be  sittin’.” 

“Is  your  heart  safe?  You  have  no  smotherin’ 
or  anything  upon  it? 

“ Why  thin,  thank  goodness,  no ; it’s  all  about 
my  back  an’  my  hinches.” 

“ Divil  a thing  it  is  but  a complaint  they  call 
an  alloverness  ails  you,  you  shkaimer  o’  the  world 
wide.  ’Tis  the  oil  o’  the  hazel,  or  a rubbin’  down 
wid  an  oak  towel  you  want.  Get  up,  I say,  or, 
by  this  an’  by  that,  I’ll  flail  you  widin  an  inch 
o’  your  life.” 

“ Is  it  beside  yourself  you  are,  Condy?  ” 

“No,  no,  faix;  I’ve  found  you  out:  Ellish  is 
afther  tellin’  me  that  it  was  a smotherin’  on  the 
heart ; but  it’s  a pain  in  the  small  o’  the  back  wid 
yourself.  Oh,  you  born  desaver!  Get  up,  I say 
agin,  afore  I take  the  stick  to  you ! ” 

“ Why,  thin,  all  sorts  o’  fortune  to  you,  Condy 
— ^ha,  ha,  ha! — but  you’re  the  sarra’s  pet,  for 
there’s  no  escapin’  you.  What  was  that  I hard 
atween  you  an’  Ellish?”  said  Peter,  getting 
up. 

“ The  sarra  matther  to  you.  If  you  behave 
yourself,  we  may  let  you  into  the  wrong  side  o’ 
the  sacret  afore  you  die.  Go  an’  get  us  a pint 
o’  what  you  know,”  replied  Condy,  as  he  and 
Peter  entered  the  kitchen. 

“ Ellish,”  said  Peter,  “ I suppose  we  must  give 


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it  to  thim.  Give  it — give  it,  avourneen.  Now, 
Condy,  whin  ’ill  you  pay  me  for  this?  ” 

“ Never  fret  yourself  about  that;  you’ll  be  ped. 
Honour  bright^  as  the  black  said  whin  he  stole 
the  boots.” 

“ Now,  Pether,”  said  the  wife,  “ sure  it’s  no 
use  axin’  me  to  give  it,  afther  the  promise  I made 
last  night.  Give  it  yourself;  for  me.  I’ll  have 
no  hand  in  sich  things,  good  or  bad.  I hope  we’ll 
soon  get  out  of  it  altogether,  for  myself’s  sick 
an’  sore  of  it,  dear  knows!  ” 

Peter  accordingly  furnished  them  with  the 
liquor,  and  got  a promise  that  Condy  would  cer- 
tainly pay  him  at  mass  on  the  following  Sunday, 
which  was  only  three  days  distant.  The  fun  of 
the  boys  was  exuberant  at  Condy’s  success;  they 
drank,  and  laughed,  and  sang,  until  pint  after 
pint  followed  in  rapid  succession. 

Every  additional  inroad  upon  the  keg  brought 
a fresh  groan  from  Ellish;  and  even  Peter  him- 
self began  to  look  blank  as  their  potations  deep- 
ened. When  the  night  was  far  advanced  they 
departed,  after  having  first  overwhelmed  Ellish 
with  professions  of  the  warmest  friendship,  prom- 
ising that  in  future  she  exclusively  should  reap 
whatever  benefit  was  to  be  derived  from  their 
patronage. 

In  the  meantime  Condy  forgot  to  perform  his 
promise.  The  next  Sunday  passed,  but  Peter 
was  not  paid,  nor  was  his  clever  debtor  seen  at 
mass,  or  in  the  vicinity  of  the  shebeen-house,  for 
many  a month  afterwards — an  instance  of  in- 
gratitude which  mortified  his  creditor  extremely. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


127 


The  latter,  who  felt  that  it  was  a take  in,  resolved 
to  cut  short  all  hopes  of  obtaining  credit  from 
them  in  future.  In  about  a week  after  the  fore- 
going hoax,  he  got  up  a board,  presenting  a more 
vigorous  refusal  of  scoj'e  than  the  former.  His 
friends,  who  were  more  in  number  than  he  could 
possibly  have  imagined,  on  tliis  occasion,  were 
altogether  wiped  out  of  the  exception.  The  no- 
tice ran  to  the  following  effect: — 

“ Notice  to  the  Public,  and  to  P ether  ConnelVs  friends  in 
particular. — Divil  resave  the  morsel  of  credit  will  be  got  or 
given  in  this  house,  while  there  is  stick  or  stone  of  it  to- 
gether, barrin’  them  that  axes  it  has  the  ready  money. 

“ Pether  X his  mark  Connell, 

**  Ellish  X her  mark  Connell.’" 

This  regulation,  considering  everything,  was 
a very  proper  one.  It  occasioned  much  mirth 
among  Peter’s  customers;  but  Peter  cared  little 
about  that,  provided  he  made  the  money. 

The  progress  of  his  prosperity,  dating  it  from 
so  small  a beginning,  was  certainly  slow.  He 
owed  it  principally  to  the  careful  habits  of  Ellish, 
and  his  own  sobriety.  He  was  prudent  enough 
to  avoid  placing  any  sign  in  his  window,  by  which 
his  house  could  be  knowm  as  a shebeen;  for  he 
was  not  ignorant  that  there  is  no  class  of  men 
more  learned  in  this  species  of  hieroglyphics  than 
excisemen.  At  all  events,  he  was  prepared  for 
them,  had  they  come  to  examine  his  premises. 
Nothing  that  could  bring  him  within  the  law 
was  ever  kept  visible.  The  cask  that  contained 
the  poteen  was  seldom  a week  in  the  same  place 
of  concealment,  which  was  mostly,  as  we  have 


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said,  under  ground.  The  tobacco  was  weighed 
and  subdivided  into  small  quantities,  which,  in 
addition  to  what  he  carried  in  his  pocket,  were 
distributed  in  various  crevices  and  crannies  of  the 
house;  sometimes  under  the  thatch;  sometimes 
under  a dish  on  the  dresser,  but  generally  in  a 
damp  place. 

When  they  had  been  about  two  or  three  years 
thus  employed,  Peter,  at  the  solicitation  of  the 
wife,  took  a small  farm. 

“You’re  stout  an’  able,”  said  she;  “an’  as  I 
can  manage  the  house  widout  you,  wouldn’t  it  be 
a good  plan  to  take  a bit  o’  ground — nine  or  ten 
acres,  suppose — an’  thry  your  hand  at  it?  Sure 
you  wor  wanst  the  greatest  man  in  the  parish 
about  a farm.  Surely  that  ’ud  be  dacenter  nor 
to  be  slung ein^  about,  invintin’  truth  and  lies  for 
other  people,  whin  they’re  at  their  work,  to 
make  thim  laugh,  an’  you  doin’  nothin’  but 
standin’  over  thim,  wid  your  hands  down  to  the 
bottom  o’  your  pockets?  Do,  Pether,  thry  it, 
avick,  an’  you’ll  see  it  ’ill  prosper  wid  us,  plase 
God.” 

“ Faix  I’m  ladin’  an  asier  life,  Ellish.” 

“ But  are  you  ladin’  a dacenter  or  a more 
becominer  hfe?  ” 

“ Why  I think,  widout  doubt,  that  it’s  more 
becominer  to  walk  about  like  a gintleman,  nor 
to  be  workin’  hke  a slave.” 

“ Gintleman!  Musha,  is  it  to  the  fair  you’re 
bringin’  yourself?  Why,  you  great  big  bost- 
hoon,  isn’t  it  both  a sin  an’  a shame  to  see  you 
sailin’  about  among  the  neighbours,  like  a shtray 


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129 


turkey,  widout  a hand’s  turn  to  do?  But,  any 
way,  take  my  advice,  a villish, — will  you,  aroon? 
— an’  faix  you’ll  see  how  rich  we’ll  get,  wid  a 
blessin’?” 

“ Ellish,  you’re  a deludher!  ” 

“ Well,  an’  what  suppose?  To  be  sure  I am. 
Usen’t  you  be  followin’  me,  like  a calf  afther 
the  finder? — ha,  ha,  ha! — Will  you  do  my  biddin’, 
Pether  darlin’?  ” 

Peter  gave  her  a shrewd,  significant  wink, 
in  contradiction  to  what  he  considered  the  de- 
grading comparison  she  had  just  made. 

‘‘  Ellish,  you’re  beside  the  mark,  you  beauty ; 
always  put  the  saddle  on  the  right  horse,  woman 
alive!  Didn’t  you  often  an’  often  sw^ear  to  me, 
upon  two  green  ribbons  acrass  one  another,  that 
you  liked  a red  head  best,  an’  that  the  redder 
it  was  you  liked  it  the  betther?  ” 

“ An’  it  was  thruth,  too ; an’  sure,  by  the 
same  a token,  where  could  I get  one  half  so  red 
as  your  own?  Faix,  I knew  what  I was  about! 
I wouldn’t  give  you  yet  for  e’er  a young  man 
in  the  parish,  if  I was  a widow  to-morrow.  Will 
you  take  the  land?  ” 

“ So  thin,  afther  all,  if  the  head  hadn’t  been 
an  me,  I wouldn’t  be  a favourite  wId  you? — 
ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

‘‘  Get  out  wid  you,  an’  spake  sinse.  Throth 
if  you  don’t  say  aither  ay  or  no,  I’ll  give  myself 
no  more  bother  about  it.  There  we  are  now 

wid  some  guineas  together,  an’ Faix,  Pether, 

you’re  vexin’  me!” 

“Do  you  w^ant  an  answer?  ” 

III— 9 


130 


IRELAND 


“ Why,  if  it’s  plasin’  to  your  honour,  I’d  have 
no  objection.” 

“ Well,  will  you  have  my  new  big  coat  made 
agin  Shraft?  ” 

“ Ay  will  I,  in  case  you  do  what  I say ; but 
if  you  don’t,  the  sarra  stitch  of  it  ’ll  go  to  your 
back  this  twelvemonth,  maybe,  if  you  vex  me. 
Now!” 

“Well,  I’ll  tell  you  what:  my  mind’s  made 
up — I will  take  the  land;  an’  I’ll  show  the 
neighbours  what  Pether  Connell  can  do  yit.” 

“Augh!  augh!  mavourneen,  that  you  wor! 
Throth  I’ll  fry  a bit  o’  the  bacon  for  our  dinner 
to-day,  on  the  head  o’  that,  although  I didn’t 
intind  to  touch  it  till  Sunday.  Ay,  faix,  an’  a 
pair  o’  stockins,  too,  along  wid  the  coat;  an’ 
somethin’  else,  that  you  didn’t  hear  of  yit.” 

Ellish,  in  fact,  was  a perfect  mistress  of  the 
science  of  wheedHng;  but  as  it  appears  instinctive 
in  the  sex,  this  is  not  to  be  wondered  at.  Peter 
himself  was  easy,  or  rather  indolent,  till  prop- 
erly excited  by  the  influence  of  adequate  mo- 
tives ; but  no  sooner  were  the  energies  that 
slumbered  in  him  called  into  activity,  than  he 
displayed  a firnmess  of  purpose,  and  a perse- 
verance in  action,  that  amply  repaid  his  exer- 
tions. 

The  first  thing  he  did,  after  taking  his  little 
farm,  was  to  prepare  for  its  proper  cultivation, 
and  to  stock  it.  His  funds  were  not,  however, 
sufficient  for  this  at  the  time.  A horse  was  to 
be  bought,  but  the  last  guinea  they  could  spare 
had  been  already  expended,  and  this  purchase 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


131 


was,  therefore,  out  of  the  question.  The  usages 
of  the  small  farmers,  however,  enabled  him  to 
remedy  this  inconvenience.  Peter  made  a bar- 
gain with  a neighbour,  in  which  he  undertook 
to  repay  him  by  an  exchange  of  labour,  for  the 
use  of  his  plough  and  horses  in  getting  down 
his  crop.  He  engaged  to  give  him,  for  a stated 
period  in  the  slack  season,  so  many  days’  mowing 
as  would  cover  the  expenses  of  ploughing  and 
harrowing  his  land.  There  was,  however,  a con- 
siderable portion  of  his  holding  potato-ground: 
this  Peter  himself  dug  with  his  spade,  break- 
ing it  as  he  went  along  into  fine  mould.  He 
then  planted  the  seed — got  a hatchet,  and  select- 
ing the  best  thorn-bush  he  could  find,  cut  it 
down,  tied  a rope  to  the  trunk,  seized  the  rope, 
and  in  this  manner  harrowed  his  potato-ground. 
Thus  did  he  proceed,  struggling  to  overcome 
difficulties  by  skill,  and  substituting  for  the 
more  efficient  modes  of  husbandry,  such  rude 
artifical  resources  as  his  want  of  capital  com- 
pelled him  to  adopt. 

In  the  meantime,  Ellish,  seeing  Peter  ac- 
quitting himself  in  his  undertaking  with  such 
credit,  determined  not  to  be  outdone  in  her  own 
department.  She  accordingly  conceived  the 
design  of  extending  her  business,  and  widening 
the  sphere  of  her  exertions.  This  intention, 
however,  she  kept  secret  from  Peter,  until  by 
putting  penny  to  penny,  and  shilling  to  shilling, 
she  was  able  to  purchase  a load  of  crockery. 
Here  was  a new  source  of  profit  opened  exclu- 
sively by  her  own  address.  Peter  was  aston- 


132 


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ished  when  he  saw  the  car  unloaded,  and  the 
crockery  piled  in  proud  array  by  Ellish’s  own 
hands. 

“ I knew,”  said  she,  “ I’d  take  a start  out  o’ 
you.  Faix,  Pether,  you’ll  see  how  I’ll  do,  never 
fear,  wid  the  help  o’  Heaven!  I’ll  be  off  to 
the  market  in  the  mornin’,  plase  God,  where  I’ll 
sell  rings  round  me  o’  them  crocks  and  pitchers. 
An’  now,  Pether,  the  sarra  one  o’  me  would  do 
this,  good  or  bad,  only  bekase  your  managin’ 
the  farm  so  cleverly.  Tady  Gormley’s  goin’  to 
bring  home  his  meal  from  the  mill,  and  has 
promised  to  lave  these  in  the  market  for  me,  an’ 
never  fear  but  I’ll  get  some  o’  the  neighbours 
to  bring  them  home,  so  that  there’s  car-hire 
saved.  Faix,  Pether,  there’s  nothin’  like  givin’ 
the  people  sweet  words,  any  way ; sure  they  come 
chape.” 

“ Faith,  an’  I’ll  back  you  for  the  sweet  words 
agin  any  woman  in  the  three  kingdoms,  Ellish, 
you  darlin’.  But  don’t  you  know  the  proverb, 
‘ sweet  words  butther  no  parsnips.’  ” 

“ In  throth  the  same  proverb’s  a lyin’  one, 
and  ever  was;  but  it’s  not  parsnips  I’ll  butther 
wid  ’em,  you  gommoch.” 

“ Sowl,  you  butthered  me  wid  ’em  long  enough, 
you  deludher — devil  a lie  in  it;  but  thin,  as  you 
say,  sure  enough,  I was  no  parsnip — not  so  soft 
as  that  either,  you  phanix.” 

“No?  Thin  I seldom  seen  your  beautiful 
head  without  thinkin’  of  a carrot,  an’  it’s  well 
known  they’re  related — ^ha,  ha,  ha! — Behave, 
Pether — behave,  I say — Pether,  Pether — ha,  ha. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


133 


ha! — let  me  alone!  Katty  Hacket,  take  him 
away  from  me — ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

Will  ever  you,  you  shaver  wid  the  tongue 
that  you  are?  Will  ever  you,  I say?  Will  ever 
you  make  delusion  to  my  head  again — eh?  ” 

“ Oh,  never,  never — but  let  me  go,  an’  me  so 
full  o’  tides!  Oh,  Pether,  avourneen,  don’t, 
you’ll  hurt  me,  an’  the  way  I’m  in — quit, 
avillish!  ” 

“ Bedad,  if  you  don’t  let  my  head  alone.  I’ll 
— will  ever  you?  ” 

“ Never,  never.  There  now — ha,  ha,  ha! — oh, 
but  I’m  as  wake  as  wather  wid  what  I laughed. 
Well  now,  Pether,  didn’t  I manage  bravely — 
didn’t  I?  ” 

“ Wait  till  we  see  the  profits  first,  Ellish — 
crockery’s  very  tindher  goods.” 

“Ay! — just  wait,  an’  I’ll  engage.  I’ll  turn 
the  penny.  The  family’s  risin’  wid  us  ” — 

“ Very  thrue,”  replied  Peter,  giving  a sly  wink 
at  the  wife — “ no  doubt  of  it.” 

“ — Risin’  wid  us — I tell  you  to  have  sinse, 
Pether;  an’  it’s  our  duty  to  have  something  for 
the  crathurs  when  they  grow  up.” 

“ Well,  that’s  a thruth — sure  I’m  not  sayin’ 
against  it.” 

“ I know  that;  but  what  I say  is,  if  we  hould 
an,  we  may  make  money.  Every  thing,  for  so 
far,  has  thruv  wid  us,  God  be  praised  for  it. 
There’s  another  thing  in  my  mind,  that  I’ll  be 
tellin’  you  some  o’  these  days.” 

“ I believe,  Ellish,  you  dhrame  about  makin’ 
money.” 


134 


IRELAND 


“Well,  an’  I might  do  worse;  when  I’m 
dhramin’  about  it,  I’m  doin’  no  sin  to  any  one. 
But,  listen,  you  must  keep  the  house  to-morrow 
while  I’m  at  the  market.  Won’t  you,  Pether?  ” 

“ An’  who’s  to  open  the  dhrain  in  the  bottom 
below?  ” 

“ That  can  be  done  the  day  afther.  Won’t 
you,  abouchal?  ” 

“ Ellish,  you’re  a deludher,  I tell  you.  Sweet 
words; — sowl,  you’d  smooth  a furze  bush  wid 
sweet  words.  How-an-ever,  I will  keep  the 
house  to-morrow,  till  we  see  the  great  things 
you’ll  do  wid  your  crockery.” 

Elhsh’s  success  was,  to  say  the  least  of  it, 
quite  equal  to  her  expectations.  She  was  cer- 
tainly an  excellent  wife,  full  of  acuteness,  indus- 
try, and  enterprise.  Had  Peter  been  married  to 
a woman  of  a disposition  resembling  his  own, 
it  is  probable  that  he  would  have  sunk  into  in- 
dolence, filth,  and  poverty.  These  miseries  might 
have  soured  their  tempers,  and  driven  them  into 
all  the  low  excesses  and  crimes  attendant  upon 
pauperism.  Ellish,  however,  had  sufficient  spirit 
to  act  upon  Peter’s  natural  indolence,  so  as  to 
excite  it  to  the  proper  pitch.  Her  mode  of 
operation  was  judiciously  suited  to  his  temper. 
Playfulness  and  kindness  were  the  instruments 
by  which  she  managed  him.  She  knew  that 
violence,  or  the  assumption  of  authority,  would 
cause  a man  who,  like  him,  was  stern  when  pro- 
voked, to  re-act,  and  meet  her  with  an  assertion 
of  his  rights  and  authority  not  to  be  trifled  with. 
This  she  consequently  avoided,  not  entirely  from 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


135 


any  train  of  reasoning  on  the  subject;  but  from 
that  intuitive  penetration  which  taught  her  to 
know  that  the  plan  she  had  resorted  to  was  best 
calculated  to  make  liim  subservient  to  her  own 
purposes  without  causing  him  to  feel  that  he 
was  governed. 

Indeed,  every  day  brought  out  her  natural 
cleverness  more  clearly.  Her  intercourse  with 
the  world  afforded  her  that  facility  of  under- 
standing the  tempers  and  dispositions  of  others, 
which  can  never  be  acquired  when  it  has  not 
been  bestowed  as  a natural  gift.  In  her  hands 
it  was  a valuable  one.  By  degrees  her  house 
improved  in  its  appearance,  both  inside  and  out- 
side. From  crockery  she  proceeded  to  herrings, 
then  to  salt,  in  each  of  which  she  dealt  with  sur- 
prising success.  There  was,  too,  such  an  air  of 
bustle,  activity,  and  good-humour  about  her  that 
people  loved  to  deal  with  her.  Her  appearance 
was  striking,  if  not  grotesque.  She  was  tall  and 
strong,  walked  rapidly,  and  when  engaged  in 
fair  or  market  disposing  of  her  coarse  merchan- 
dise, was  dressed  in  a short  red  petticoat,  blue 
stockings,  strong  brogues,  wore  a blue  cloak, 
with  the  hood  turned  up  over  her  head,  on  the 
top  of  which  was  a man’s  hat  fastened  by  a 
ribbon  under  her  chin.  As  she  thus  stirred  about, 
with  a kind  word  and  a joke  for  every  one,  her 
healthy  cheek  in  full  bloom,  and  her  blue-grey 
eye  beaming  with  an  expression  of  fun  and  good- 
nature, it  would  be  difficult  to  conceive  a charac- 
ter more  adapted  for  intercourse  with  a laughter- 
loving  people.  In  fact,  she  soon  became  a 


136 


IRELAND 


favourite,  and  this  not  the  less  that  she  was 
as  ready  to  meet  her  rivals  in  business  with  a 
blow  as  with  a joke.  Peter  witnessed  her  success 
with  unfeigned  pleasure;  and  although  every 
feasible  speculation  was  proposed  by  her,  yet  he 
never  felt  that  he  was  a mere  nonentity  when 
compared  to  his  wife.  ’Tis  true,  he  was  perfectly 
capable  of  executing  her  agricultural  plans  when 
she  proposed  them,  but  his  own  capacity  for  mak- 
ing a lucky  hit  was  very  limited.  Of  the  two 
she  was  certainly  the  better  farmer;  and  scarcely 
an  improvement  took  place  in  his  little  holding, 
which  might  not  be  traced  to  Ellish. 

In  the  course  of  a couple  of  years  she  bought 
him  a horse,  and  Peter  was  enabled  to  join  with 
a neighbour  who  had  another.  Each  had  a 
plough  and  tackle,  so  that  here  was  a little  team 
made  up,  the  half  of  which  belonged  to  Peter. 
By  this  means  they  ploughed  week  about,  until 
their  crops  were  got  down.  Peter  finding  his 
farm  doing  well,  began  to  feel  a kind  of  rivalship 
with  his  wife — that  is  to  say,  she  first  suggested 
the  principle,  and  afterwards  contrived  to  make 
him  imagine  that  it  was  originally  his  own. 

“ The  sarra  one  o’  you,  Pether,”  she  exclaimed 
to  him  one  day,  “ hut’s  batin’  me  out  an’  out. 
Why,  you’re  the  very  dickins  at  the  farmin’,  so 
you  are.  Faix,  I suppose,  if  you  go  an  this 
way  much  longer,  that  you’ll  be  thinkin’  of  an- 
other farm,  in  regard  that  we  have  some  guineas 
together.  Pether,  did  you  ever  think  of  it, 
abouchal?  ” 

“ To  be  sure,  I did,  you  beauty;  an’  amn’t  I 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  137 

in  fifty  notions  to  take  Harry  Neal’s  land,  that 
jist  lies  alongside  of  our  own.” 

“ Faix,  an’  you’re  right,  maybe;  but  if  it’s 
sthrivin’  agin  me  you  are,  you  may  give  it  over: 
I tell  you.  I’ll  have  more  money  made  afore  this 
time  twelvemonth  than  you  will.” 

“ Arrah,  is  it  jokin’  you  are?  More  money? 
Would  you  advise  me  to  take  Harry’s  land? 
Tell  me  that  first,  you  phanix,  an’  thin  I’m  your 
man!  ” 

“ Faix,  take  your  own  coorse,  avourneen.  If 
you  get  a lase  of  it  at  a fair  rint.  I’ll  buy  an- 
other horse,  any  how.  Isn’t  that  doin’  the  thing 
dacent?  ” 

“More  power  to  you,  Ellish!  I’ll  hold  you 
a crown,  I pay  you  the  price  o’  the  horse  afore 
this  time  twelvemonth.” 

“Done!  The  sarra  be  off  me  but  done! — an’ 
here’s  Barny  Dillon  an’  Katty  Hacket  to  bear 
witness.” 

“ Sure  enough  we  will,”  said  Bamy,  the 
servant. 

“ I’ll  back  the  misthress  any  money,”  replied 
the  maid. 

“ Two  to  one  on  the  masther,”  said  the  man. 
“ Whoo!  our  side  o’  the  house  for  ever!  Come, 
Pether,  hould  up  your  head,  there’s  money  bid 
for  you!  ” 

“ Ellish,  I’ll  fight  for  you  ancle  deep,”  said 
Katty — “ depind  your  life  an  me.” 

“ In  the  name  o’  goodness,  thin,  it’s  a bargain,” 
said  Ellish;  “ an’  at  the  end  o’  the  year,  if  we’re 
spared,  we’ll  see  wKat  we’ll  see.  We’ll  have 


138 


IRELAND 


among  ourselves  a little  sup  o’  tay,  plase  good- 
ness, an’  we’ll  be  comfortable.  Now,  Barny,  go 
an’  draw  home  thim  phaties  from  the  pits  while 
the  day’s  fine;  and  Katty,  a colleen,  bring  in 
some  wather,  till  we  get  the  pig  killed  and 
scalded — bit’ll  hardly  have  time  to  be  good  bacon 
for  the  big  markets  at  Christmas.  I don’t  wish,” 
she  continued,  “ to  keep  it  back  from  them  that 
we  have  a thrifle  o’  money.  One  always  does 
betther  when  it’s  known  that  they’re  not  strug- 
glin’. There’s  Nelly  Cummins,  an’  her  customers 
is  lavin’  her,  an’  dalin’  wid  me,  bekase  she’s 
goin’  down  in  business.  Ay,  an’,  Pether,  a 
hagur,  it’s  the  way  o’  the  world.” 

“ Well  but,  Ellish,  don’t  you  be  givin’  Nelly 
Cummins  the  harsh  word,  or  lanin’  too  heavily 
upon  her,  the  crathur,  merely  in  regard  that 
she  is  goin’  down.  Do  you  hear,  a colleen?  ” 

“ Indeed  I don’t  do  it,  Pether;  but  you  know 
she  has  a tongue  like  a razor  at  times,  and  whin 
it  gets  loose  she’d  provoke  St.  Pether  himself. 
Thin  she’s  takin’  to  the  dhrink,  too,  the  poor 
misfortunate  vagabond” 

“ Well,  well,  that’s  no  affair  o’  yours,  or  mine 
aither — only  don’t  be  risin’  ructions  and  norra- 
tions  wid  her.  You  threwn  a jug  at  her  the 
last  day  you  war  out,  an’  hot  the  poor  ould 
Potticary  as  he  was  passin’.  You  see  I hard  that, 
though  you  kept  it  close  from  me! — ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 
“ Ha,  ha,  ha! — why  you’d  split  if  you  had  seen 
the  crathur  whin  he  fell  into  Pether  White’s 
brogue-creels,  wid  his  heels  up.  But  what  right 
had  she  to  be  shtrivin’  to  bring  away  my  cus- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


139 


tomers  afore  my  face?  Alley  Dogherty  was 
buying  a crock  wid  me,  and  Nelly  shouts  over 
to  her  from  where  she  sot  like  a queen  on  her 
stool,  ‘ Alley,’  says  she,  ‘ here’s  a betther  one  for 
three  fardens  less,  an’  another  farden  ’ill  get 
you  a pennorth  o’  salt.’  An’,  indeed.  Alley 
walks  over,  manely  enough,  an’  tuck  her  at  her 
word.  Why,  flesh  an’  blood  couldn’t  bear  it.” 
“ Indeed,  an’  you’re  raal  flesh  an’  blood,  Ellish, 
if  that’s  thrue.” 

“ Well,  but  consarnin’  what  I mintioned  awhile 
agone — hut!  the  poor  mad  crathur,  let  us  have 
no  more  discoorse  about  her — I say,  that  no 
one  ever  thrives  so  well  as  when  the  world  sees 
that  they  are  gettin’  an,  an’  prosperin’;  but  if 
there’s  not  an  appearance,  how  will  any  one 
know  whether  we  are  prosperin’  or  not,  barrin’ 
they  see  some  sign  of  it  about  us;  I mane,  in  a 
quiet  rasonable  way,  widout  show  or  extrava- 
gance. In  the  name  o’  goodness,  thin,  let  us  get 
the  house  brushed  up,  an’  the  outhouses  dashed. 
A bushel  or  two  of  lime  ’ill  make  this  as  white 
as  an  egg  widin,  an’  a very  small  expinse  will 
get  it  plastered  and  whitewashed  widout. 
Wouldn’t  you  like  it,  avoureen?  Eh,  Pether?  ” 
‘‘  To  be  sure  I’d  like  it.  It’ll  give  a respectful 
look  to  the  house  and  place.” 

“ Ay,  an’  it’ll  bring  customers,  that’s  the  main 
thing.  People  always  like  to  come  to  a snug 
comfortable  place.  An’,  plase  God,  I’m  thinking 
of  another  plan  that  I’ll  soon  mintion.” 

“ An’  what  may  that  be,  you  skamer?  Why, 
Ellish,  you’ve  ever  an’  always  some  skame  or 


140 


IRELAND 


other  in  that  head  o’  yours.  For  my  part,  I 
don’t  know  how  you  get  at  them.” 

“ Well,  no  matter,  acushla,  do  you  only  back 
me;  jist  show  me  how  I ought  to  go  on  wid  them, 
for  nobody  can  outdo  you  at  such  things,  an’ 
I’ll  engage  we’ll  thrive  yit,  always  wid  a blessin’ 
an  us.” 

“ Why,  to  tell  God’s  thruth,  I’d  bate  the  devil 
himself  at  plannin’  out,  an’  bringin’  a thing  to  a 
conclusion — eh,  you  deludher?  ” 

“ The  sarra  doubt  of  it;  but  takin’  the  other 
farm  was  the  brightest  thought  I seen  wid  you 
yit.  Will  you  do  it,  avillish?  ” 

“ To  be  sure.  Don’t  I say  it?  An’  it’ll  be 
up  wid  the  lark  wid  me.  Hut,  woman,  you 
don’t  see  the  half  o’  what’s  in  me,  yet.” 

“I’ll  buy  you  a hat  and  a pair  o’  stockins  at 
Christmas.” 

“Will  you,  EUish?  Then,  by  the  book.  I’ll 
work  like  a horse.” 

“ I didn’t  intind  to  tell  you,  but  I had  it  laid 
out  for  you.” 

“ Faith,  you’re  a beauty,  EUish.  What’ll  we 
call  this  young  chap  that’s  cornin’,  acushla?  ” 

“ Now,  Pether,  none  o’  your  capers.  It’s 
time  enough  when  the  thing  happens  to  be 
thinkin’  o’  that,  glory  be  to  God!  ” 

“ Well,  you  may  talk  as  you  plase,  but  I’ll  call 
him  Pether.” 

“ An’  how  do  you  know  but  he’ll  be  a girl, 
you  omadhawn?” 

“ Murdher  alive,  ay,  sure  enough!  Faith  I 
didn’t  think  o’  that!  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


111 


‘‘  Well,  go  up  now  an’  spake  to  INIisther  Eccles 
about  the  land;  maybe  somebody  else  ’ud  slip 
in  afore  us,  an’  that  wouldn’t  be  pleasant. 
Here’s  your  brave  big  coat,  put  it  an;  faix,  it 
makes  a man  of  you — gives  you  a bodagh  look 
entirely;  but  that’s  little  to  what  you’ll  be  yet, 
wid  a blessin’ — a Half  Sir,  any  way.” 

In  fact,  Ellish’s  industry  had  already  gained 
a character  for  both  herself  and  her  husband. 
He  got  credit  for  the  assiduity  and  activity  to 
which  she  trained  him;  and  both  were  respected 
for  their  cleverness  in  advancing  themselves 
from  so  poor  a beginning,  to  the  humble  state 
of  independence  they  had  then  reached.  The 
farm  which  Ellish  was  so  anxious  to  secure  was 
the  property  of  the  gentleman  from  whom  they 
held  the  other.  Being  a man  of  sense  and  pene- 
tration, he  fortunately  saw — what,  indeed,  was 
generally  well  knowm — that  Peter  and  Ellish 
were  rising  in  the  world,  and  that  their  elevation 
was  the  consequence  of  their  own  unceasing  ef- 
forts to  become  independent,  so  that  industry  is 
in  every  possible  point  of  view  its  own  reward. 
So  long  as  the  farm  was  open  to  competition, 
the  offers  for  it  multiplied  prodigiously,  and 
rose  in  equal  proportion.  Persons  not  w^orth 
twenty  shillings  in  the  world,  offered  double  the 
rent  which  the  utmost  stretch  of  ingenuity,  even 
with  suitable  capital,  could  pay.  New-married 
couples,  with  nothing  but  the  strong  imaginative 
hopes  peculiar  to  their  country,  proposed  for  it  in 
a most  liberal  spirit.  Men  who  had  been  ejected 
out  of  their  late  farms  for  non-payment  of  rent, 

III— 10 


142 


IRELAND 


were  ready  to  cultivate  this  at  a rent  much 
above  that  which,  on  better  land,  they  were  un- 
able to  pay.  Others,  who  had  been  ejected  from 
farm  after  farm — each  of  which  they  undertook 
as  a mere  speculation,  to  furnish  them  with 
present  subsistence,  but  without  any  ultimate 
expectation  of  being  able  to  meet  their  engage- 
ments— came  forward  with  the  most  laudable  ef- 
forts. This  gentleman,  however,  was  none  of 
those  landlords  who  are  so  besotted  and  ignorant 
of  their  own  interests,  as  to  let  their  lands 
simply  to  the  highest  bidders,  without  taking 
into  consideration  their  capital,  moral  character, 
and  habits  of  industry.  He  resided  at  home, 
knew  his  tenants  personally,  took  an  interest  in 
their  successes  and  difficulties,  and  instructed 
them  in  the  best  modes  of  improving  their  farms. 

Peter’s  first  interview  with  him  was  not  quite 
satisfactory  on  either  side.  The  honest  man 
was  like  a ship  without  her  rudder,  when  trans- 
acting business  in  the  absence  of  his  wife.  The 
fact  was,  that  on  seeing  the  liigh  proposals 
which  were  sent  in,  he  became  alarmed  lest,  as 
he  flattered  himself,  that  the  credit  of  the 
transaction  should  be  all  his  own,  the  farm  might 
go  into  the  hands  of  another,  and  his  character 
for  cleverness  suffer  with  Ellish.  The  land- 
lord was  somewhat  astounded  at  the  rent  which 
a man  who  bore  so  high  a name  for  prudence 
offered  him.  He  knew  it  was  considerably  be- 
yond what  the  land  was  worth,  and  he  did  not 
wish  that  any  tenant  coming  upon  his  estate 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


143 


should  have  no  other  prospect  than  that  of 
gradually  receding  into  insolvency. 

‘‘  I cannot  give  you  any  answer  now,”  said 
he  to  Peter;  “but  if  you  will  call  in  a day  or 
two  I shall  let  you  know  my  final  determina- 
tion.” 

Peter,  on  coming  home,  rendered  an  account 
of  his  interview  with  the  landlord  to  his  wife, 
who  no  sooner  heard  of  the  extravagant  proposal 
he  made,  than  she  raised  her  hands  and  eyes, 
exclaiming — 

“ Why  thin,  Pether,  a lanna,  was  it  beside 
yourself  you  wor,  to  go  for  to  offer  a rint  that 
no  one  could  honestly  pay!  Why,  man  alive, 
it  ’ud  lave  us  widout  house  or  home  in  no  time, 
all  out!  Sure  Pether,  a cushla,  where  ’ud  be 
the  use  of  us  or  any  one  takin’  land,  barrin’  they 
could  make  somethin’  by  it?  Faix,  if  the  gintle- 
man  had  sinse,  he  wouldn’t  give  the  same  farm 
to  anybody  at  sich  a rint;  an’  for  good  rasons 
too — bekase  they  could  never  pay  it,  an  him- 
self ’ud  be  the  sufferer  in  the  long  run.” 

“ Dang  me,  but  you’re  the  long-headedest 
woman  alive  this  day,  Ellish.  Why,  I never 
wanst  wint  into  the  rason  o’  the  thing,  at  all. 
But  you  don’t  know  the  offers  he  got.” 

“Don’t  I?  Why  do  you  think  he’d  let  the 
Mullins,  or  the  Conlans,  or  the  O’Donoghoes, 
or  the  Duffys,  upon  his  land,  widout  a shillin’ 
in  one  o’  their  pockets  to  stock  it,  or  to  begin 
workin’  it  properly  wid.  Hand  me  my  cloak 
from  the  pin  there,  an’  get  your  hat.  Katty, 


144 


IRELAND 


avourneen,  have  an  eye  to  the  house  tiU  we  c6me 
back;  an’  if  Dick  Murphy  comes  here  to  get 
tobaccy  on  score,  tell  him  I can’t  afford  it,  till 
he  pays  up  what  he  got.  Come,  Petber,  in  the 
name  o’  goodness — come,  a bouchal.” 

Ellish,  during  their  short  journey  to  the  land- 
lord’s, commenced,  in  her  own  way,  a lecture 
upon  agricultural  economy,  which,  though 
plain  and  unvarnished,  contained  excellent  and 
practical  sense.  She  also  pointed  out  to  him  when 
to  speak  and  when  to  be  silent ; told  him  what  rent 
to  offer,  and  in  what  manner  he  should  offer  it; 
but  she  did  all  this  so  dexterously  and  sweetly, 
that  honest  Peter  thought  the  new  and  corrected 
views  which  she  furnished  him  with,  were  alto- 
gether the  result  of  his  own  penetration. 

The  landlord  was  at  home  when  they  arrived, 
and  ordered  them  into  the  parlour,  where  he 
soon  made  his  appearance. 

“ Well,  Connell,”  said  he,  smiling,  “ are  you 
come  to  make  me  a higher  offer?  ” 

“ Why  thin  no,  plase  your  honour,”  replied 
Peter,  looking  for  confidence  to  Elfish:  “ instead 

o’  that,  sir.  Elfish  here  ” 

“Never  heed  me,  a lanna;  tell  his  honour 
what  you’ve  to  say,  out  o’  the  face.  Go  an, 
acushla.” 

“ Why,  your  honour,  to  tell  the  blessed  thruth, 
the  dickens  a bit  o’  myself  but  had  a sup  in 
my  head  when  I wid  your  honour  to-day  be- 
fore.” 

Elfish  was  thunderstruck  at  this  most  un- 
expected apology  from  Peter;  but  the  fact  was, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


145 


that  the  instructions  which  she  had  given  him 
on  their  way  had  completely  evaporated  from 
his  brain,  and  he  felt  himself  thrown  altogether 
upon  his  own  powers  of  invention.  Here,  how- 
ever, he  was  at  home;  for  it  was  well  known 
among  all  his  acquaintances,  that,  however  he 
might  be  deficient  in  the  management  of  a 
family  when  compared  to  his  wife,  he  was 
capable,  notmthstanding,  of  exerting  a certain 
imaginative  faculty  in  a very  high  degree. 
Elfish  felt  that  to  contradict  him  on  the  spot 
must  lessen  both  him  and  herself  in  the  opinion 
of  the  landlord,  a circumstance  that  would  have 
given  her  much  pain. 

“ I’m  sorry  to  hear  that,  Connell,”  said  Mr. 
Eccles;  “ you  bear  the  character  of  being  strictly 
sober  in  your  habits.  You  must  have  been  early 
at  the  bottle,  too,  which  makes  your  apolog}^ 
rather  unhappy.  Of  all  tipplers,  he  who  drinks 
early  is  the  worst  and  most  incurable.” 

“ Thrue  for  you,  sir,  but  this  only  happens  me 
wanst  a year,  your  honour.” 

“ Once  a year!  But,  by  the  by,  you  had  no 
appearance  of  being  tipsy,  Peter.” 

“ Tipsy!  Bud-a’-age,  your  honour,  I w^as 
never  seen  tipsy  in  all  my  life,”  said  Peter. — 
“ That’s  a horse  of  another  colour,  sir,  plase 
your  honour.” 

The  reader  must  at  once  perceive  that  Peter 
here  was  only  recovering  himself  from  the  eff ects 
of  the  injurious  impression  which  his  first  admis- 
sion was  calculated  to  produce  against  him  in 
the  mind  of  his  landlord. 

Ill— 10 


146 


IRELAND 


“ Tipsy!  No,  no,  sir;  but  the  rason  of  it,  sir, 
was  this : it  bein’  my  birthday,  sir,  I merely  tuck 
a sup  in  the  mornin’,  in  honour  o’  the  day.  It’s 
altogether  a lucky  day  to  me,  sir!  ” 

“ Why,  to  be  sure,  every  man’s  birthday  may, 
probably,  be  called  such — ^the  gift  of  existence 
being,  I fear,  too  much  undervalued.” 

“ Bedad,  your  honour,  I don’t  mane  that,  at 
all.” 

“ Then  what  do  you  mean,  Peter?  ” 

“ Why,  sir,  you  see,  it’s  not  that  I was  entirely 
born  on  this  day,  but  partly,  sir;  I was  married 
to  Ellish  here  into  the  bargain, — one  o’  the  best 
wives,  sir — ^however.  I’ll  say  no  more,  as  she’s 
to  the  fore  herself.  But,  death  alive,  sir,  sure 
when  we  put  both  conclusions  together — ^myself 
bein’  sich  a worthy  man,  and  Ellish  such  a tip- 
top wife,  who  could  blame  me  for  smellin’  the 
bottle? — for  divil  a much  more  I did — about  two 
glasses,  sir — an’  so  it  got  up  into  my  head  a 
little  when  I was  wid  your  honour  to-day  be- 
fore.” 

“ But  what  is  the  amount  of  all  this,  Peter?  ” 
“ Why,  sir,  you  see  only  I was  as  I said,  sir 
— not  tipsy,  your  honour,  any  way,  but  seein’ 
things  double  or  so ; an’  that  was,  I suppose,  what 
made  me  offer  for  the  farm  double  what  I in- 
tinded.  Every  body  knows,  sir,  that  the 
‘ crathur  ’ gives  the  big  heart  to  us,  any  how, 
your  honour.” 

“ But  you  know,  Peter,  we  entered  into  no 
terms  about  it.  I,  therefore,  have  neither  power 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  147 

nor  inclination  to  hold  you  to  the  offer  you 
made.” 

“ Faith,  sir,  you’re  not  the  gintleman  to  do 
a shabby  turn,  nor  ever  was,  nor  one  o’  your 
family.  There’s  not  in  all  Europe  ” — 

ElHsh,  who  was  a point  blank  dealer,  could 
endure  Peter’s  mode  of  transacting  business  no 
longer.  She  knew  that  if  he  once  got  into  the 
true  spirit  of  applying  the  oil  of  flattery  to  the 
landlord,  he  would  have  rubbed  him  into  a per- 
fect froth  ere  he  quitted  him.  She,  therefore, 
took  up  the  thread  of  the  discourse,  and  finished 
the  compliment  with  much  more  delicacy  than 
honest  Peter  could  have  displayed. 

“ Thrue  for  you,  Pether,”  she  added;  “there 
is  not  a kinder  family  to  the  poor,  nor  betther 
landlords,  in  the  country  they  hve  in.  Pether 
an’  myself,  your  honour,  on  layin’  both  our  heads 
together,  found  that  he  offered  more  rint  for  the 
land  nor  any  tenant  could  honestly  pay.  So, 
sir,  where’s  the  use  of  keepin’  back  God’s  thruth 
—Pether,  sir  ” — 

Peter  here  trembled  from  an  apprehension  that 
the  wife,  in  accomplishing  some  object  of  her 
own  in  reference  to  the  land,  was  about  to  un- 
deceive the  landlord,  touching  the  Me  which  he 
had  so  barefacedly  palmed  upon  that  worthy 
gentleman  for  truth.  In  fact,  his  anxiety  over- 
came his  prudence,  and  he  resolved  to  anticipate 
her.  ' 

“ I’d  advise  you,  sir,”  said  he,  with  a smile 
of  significant  good-humour,  “ to  be  a little  sus- 


148 


IRELAND 


picious  of  her,  for,  to  tell  the  thruth,  she  draws 
the  ” — here  he  illustrated  the  simile  with  his  staff 
— ‘‘  the  long  bow  of  an  odd  time;  faith  she  does. 
I’d  kiss  the  book  on  the  head  of  what  I tould 
you,  sir,  plase  your  honour.  For  the  sacret  of  it 
is,  that  I tuck  the  moisture  afore  she  left  her 
bed.” 

“ Why,  Peter,  alanna,”  said  Ellish,  soothingly, 
‘‘  what’s  cornin’  over  you,  at  all,  an’  me  goin’ 
to  explain  to  his  honour  the  outs  and  ins  of  our 
opinion  about  the  land?  Faix,  man,  we’re  not 
thinkin’  about  you,  good  or  bad.” 

“ I believe  the  drop  has  scarcely  left  your  head 
yet,  Peter,”  said  the  landlord. 

“ Bud-an’-age,  your  honour,  sure  we  must  have 
our  joke,  any  how — doesn’t  she  desarve  it  for 
takin’  the  word  out  o’  my  mouth?  ” 

“ Whisht,  a villish ; you’re  too  cute  for  us  all, 
Pether.  There’s  no  use,  sir,  as  I was  sayin’,  for 
any  one  to  deny  that  when  they  take  a farm 
they  do  it  to  make  by  it,  or  at  the  laste  to  live 
comfortably  an  it.  That’s  the  thruth,  your 
honour,  an’  it’s  no  use  to  keep  it  back  from  you, 
sir.” 

“ I perfectly  agree  with  you,”  said  the  land- 
lord. “ It  is  with  these  motives  that  a tenant 
should  wish  to  occupy  land ; and  it  is  the  duty  of 
every  landlord  who  has  his  own  interest  truly 
at  heart,  to  see  that  his  land  be  not  let  at  such  a 
rent  as  will  preclude  the  possibility  of  comfort 
or  independence  on  the  part  of  his  tenantry.  He 
who  lets  his  land  above  its  value,  merely  because 
people  are  foolish  enough  to  offer  more  for  it 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


149 


than  it  is  worth,  is  as  great  an  enemy  to  him- 
self as  he  is  to  the  tenant.” 

“ It’s  God’s  thruth,  sir,  an’  it’s  nothin’  else  but 
a comfort  to  hear  sich  words  cornin’  from  the 
lips  of  a gintleman  that’s  a landlord  himself.” 
“Ay,  an’  a good  one,  too,”  said  Peter;  “an’ 
kind  father  for  his  honour  to  be  what  he  is. 
Divil  resave  the  family  in  all  Europe  ” — 

“ Thrue  for  you,  avourneen,  an’  every  one 
knows  that.  We  wor  talkin’  it  over,  sir,  betuxt 
ourselves,  Pether  an’  me,  an’  he  says  very  cutely, 
that,  upon  second  thoughts,  he  offered  more  nor 
we  could  honestly  pay  out  o’  the  land;  so  ” — 
“Faith,  it’s  as  thrue  as  gospel,  your  honour. 
Says  I,  ‘ Ellish,  you  beauty  ’ ” — 

“ I thought,”  observed  Mr.  Eccles,  “ that  she 
sometimes  drew  the  long  bow,  Peter.” 

“ Oh,  murdher  alive,  sir,  it  was  only  in  regard 
of  her  crassin’  in  an’  whippin’  the  word  out  o’ 
my  mouth,  that  I wanted  to  take  a rise  out  of 
her.  Oh,  bedad,  sir,  no;  the  crathur’s  thruth  to 
the  backbone,  an’  farther  if  I’d  say  it.” 

“ So,  your  honour,  considherin’  everything, 
we’re  willin’  to  offer  thirty  shillins  an  acre  for 
the  farm.  That  rint,  sir,  we’ll  be  able  to  pay, 
wid  the  help  o’  God,  for  sure  we  can  do  nothin’ 
widout  his  assistance,  glory  be  to  his  name! 
You’ll  get  many  that’ll  offer  you  more,  your 
honour;  but  if  it  ’ud  be  plasin’  to  you  to  con- 
sidher  what  manes  they  have  to  pay  it,  I think, 
sir,  you’d  see,  out  o’  your  own  sinse,  that  it’s 
not  likely  people  who  is  gone  to  the  bad,  an* 
has  nothin’  could  stand  it  out  long.” 


150 


IRELAND 


“ I wish  to  heaven,”  replied  Mr.  Eccles,  “ that 
every  tenant  in  Ireland  possessed  your  prudence 
and  good  sense.  Will  you  permit  me  to  ask, 
Mrs.  Connell,  what  capital  you  and  your  hus- 
band can  command  provided  1 should  let  you 
have  it.” 

“ Wid  every  pleasure  in  life,  sir,  for  it’s  but 
a fair  question  to  put.  An’  sure,  it  is  to  God 
we  owe  it,  whatever  it  is,  plase  your  honour. 
But,  sir,  if.  we  get  the  land,  we’re  able  to  stock 
it,  an’  to  crop  it  well  an’  dacently;  an’  if  your 
honour  would  allow  us  for  sartin  improvements, 
sir,  we’d  run  it  into  snug  fields,  by  plantin’  good 
hedges,  an’  gettin’  up  shelther  for  the  outlyin’ 
cattle  in  the  hard  seasons,  plase  your  honour,  and 
you  know  the  farm  is  very  naked  and  bare  of 
shelter  at  present.” 

“ Sowl,  will  we,  sir,  an’  far  more  nor  that,  if 
we  get  it.  I’ll  undhertake,  sir,  to  level  ” — 

“No,  Pether,  we’ll  promise  no  more  nor  we’ll 
do;  but  anything  that  his  honour  will  be  plased 
to  point  out  to  us,  if  we  get  fair  support,  an’ 
that  it  remains  on  the  farm  afther  us,  we’ll  be 
willin’  to  do  it.” 

“ Willin’!  ” exclaimed  Peter; — “ faith,  whether 
we’re  willin’  or  not,  if  his  honour  but  says  the 
word  ” — 

“ Mrs.  Connell,”  said  their  landlord,  “ say  no 
more.  The  farm  is  yours,  and  you  may  consider 
yourselves  as  my  tenants.” 

“ Many  thanks  to  you,  sir,  for  the  priference. 
I hope,  sir,  you’ll  not  rue  what  you  did  in  givin’ 
it  to  us  before  them  that  offered  a higher  rint. 


qiixigj  i£  qgsJ  nornIs2  arlT 

.K  .H  .51  .Z  'c^  o inot\  bsoMbo'\^^5l 


The  Salmon  Leap  at  Leixlip 

Reproduced  from  a Painting  by  Francis  S.  Walker,  R,  H.  A. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


151 


You’ll  find,  sir,  wid  the  help  o’  the  Almighty, 
that  we’ll  pay  you  your  rint  rigular  an’  punc- 
tual.” 

“ Why,  thin,  long  life,  an’  glory,  an’  benedic- 
tion to  your  honour!  Faith  it’s  only  kind 
father  for  you,  sir,  to  be  what  you  are.  The 
divil  resave  the  family  in  all  Europe 

“ Peter,  that  will  do,”  replied  the  landlord ; 
“ it  would  be  rather  hazardous  for  our  family 
to  compete  with  all  Europe.  Go  home,  Peter, 
and  be  guided  by  your  wife,  who  has  more  sense 
in  her  little  finger  than  ever  your  family  had 
either  in  Europe  or  out  of  it,  although  I mean 
you  no  offence  by  going  beyond  Europe.” 

“ By  all  the  books  that  ?iever  wor  opened  an’ 
shut,”  replied  Peter,  with  the  intuitive  quickness 
of  perception  peculiar  to  Irishmen,  ‘‘  an  inno- 
center boy  than  Andy  Connell  never  was  sent 
acrass  the  water.  I proved  as  clear  an  alibi  for 
him  as  the  sun  in  the  firmament ; an’  yit,  bad  luck 
to  the  big-wig  O’Grady,  he  should  be  puttin’ 
in  his  leek  an  me  afore  the  jury,  jist  whin  I had 
the  poor  boy  cleared  out  dacently,  an’  wid  all 
honour.  An’  bedad,  now,  that  we’re  spakin’ 
about  it.  I’ll  tell  your  honour  the  whole  conclu- 
sions of  it.  You  see,  sir,  the  Agint  was  shot  one 
night ; an’  above  all  nights  in  the  year,  your  hon- 
our, a thief  of  a toothach  that  I had  kep  me  ” 

“ Pether,  come  away,  a bouchal:  his  honour 
knows  as  much  about  it  as  you  do.  Come,  aroon ; 
you  know  we  must  help  to  scald  an’  scrape  the 
pig  afore  night,  an’  it’s  late  now.” 

“ Bedad,  sir,  she’s  a sweet  one,  this.” 


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“ Be  guided  by  her,  Peter,  if  you’re  wise:  she’s 
a wife  you  ought  to  be  proud  of.” 

“ Thrue  for  you,  sir;  divil  resave  the  word  o’ 
lie  in  that,  any  how.  Come,  Ellish;  come,  you 
deludher,  I’m  wid  you.” 

“ God  bless  your  honour,  sir,  an’  we’re  oblaged 
to  you  for  your  kindness  an’  patience  wid  the 
likes  o’  us.” 

“ I say  ditto,  your  honour.  Long  life  an’ 
glory  to  you  every  day  your  honour  rises!  ” 
Peter  on  his  way  home,  entered  into  a defence 
of  his  apology  for  offering  so  liigh  a rent  to  the 
landlord;  but  although  it  possessed  both  ingenuity 
and  originality,  it  was,  we  must  confess,  grossly 
defective  in  those  principles  usually  inculcated 
by  our  best  Ethic  writers. 

“ Couldn’t  you  have  tould  him  what  we  agreed 
upon  goin’  up,”  observed  Ellish;  “ but  instead  o’ 
that,  to  begin  an’  tell  the  gintleman  so  many  lies 
about  your  bein’  dhrunk,  an’  this  bein’  your  birth- 
day, an’  the  day  we  wor  marrid,  an’, Musha, 

sich  quare  stories  to  come  into  your  head!  ” 

“ Why,”  said  Peter,  “ what  harm’s  in  all  that, 
whin  he  didn’t  find  me  out?  ” 

“ But  why  the  sarra  did  you  go  to  say  that  I 
was  in  the  custom  o’  tellin’  lies?  ” 

‘‘  Faix,  bekase  I thought  you  wor  goin’  to  let 
out  all,  an’  I thought  it  best  to  have  the  first  word 
o’  you.  What  else? — ^but  sure  I brought  myself 
off  bravely.” 

“Well,  well,  a hudh;  don’t  be  invitin’  sich 
things  another  time,  or  you’ll  bring  yourself  into 
a scrape,  some  way  or  other.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


1,5a 

“ Faix,  an’  you  needn’t  spake  Ellish;  you  can 
let  out  a nate  bounce  yourself,  whin  it’s  to  sarve 
you.  Come  now,  don’t  run  away  wid  the  story ! ” 

“ Well,  if  I do,  it’s  in  the  way  o’  my  business; 
whin  I’m  batin’  thim  down  in  the  price  o’  what 
I’m  buyin’,  or  gettin’  thim  to  bid  up  for  any 
thing  I’m  sellin’:  besides,  it’s  to  advance  ourselves 
in  the  world,  that  I do  it,  a bouchal.” 

“ Go  an,  go  an;  faix,  you’re  like  the  new^  moon, 
sharp  at  both  corners:  but  what  matther,  you 
beauty,  we’ve  secured  the  farm,  at  any  rate,  an’, 
by  this  an’  by  that,  I’ll  show  you  tip-top  farmin’ 
an  it.” 

A struggle  now  commenced  between  the  hus- 
band and  wife,  as  to  which  of  them  should,  in 
their  respective  departments,  advance  themselves 
with  greater  rapidity  in  life.  This  friendly  con- 
test was  kept  up  principally  by  the  address  of 
Ellish,  who,  as  she  knew  those  points  in  her  hus- 
band’s character  most  easily  wrought  upon,  felt 
httle  difficulty  in  shaping  him  to  her  own  pur- 
poses. Her  great  object  was  to  acquire  wealth; 
and  it  mostly  happens,  that  when  this  is  the  ruling 
principle  in  life,  there  is  usually  to  be  found,  in 
association  with  it,  all  those  qualities  which  are 
best  adapted  to  secure  it.  Peter,  on  finding  that 
every  succeeding  day  brought  something  to  their 
gains,  began  to  imbibe  a portion  of  that  spirit 
which  wholly  absorbed  Elhsh.  He  became 
worldly ; but  it  was  rather  the  worldliness  of  habit 
than  of  principle.  In  the  case  of  Ellish,  it  pro- 
ceeded from  both;  her  mind  was  apt,  vigorous, 
and  conceptive;  her  body  active,  her  manners 


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bland  and  insinuating,  and  her  penetration  almost 
intuitive.  About  the  time  of  their  entering  upon 
the  second  farm,  four  children  had  been  the  fruit 
of  their  marriage — two  sons  and  two  daughters. 
These  were  now  new  sources  of  anxiety  to  their 
mother,  and  fresh  impulses  to  her  industry.  Her 
ignorance,  and  that  of  her  husband,  of  any  kind 
of  education,  she  had  often,  in  the  course  of  their 
business,  bitter  cause  to  regret.  She  now  re- 
solved that  their  children  should  be  well  in- 
structed ; and  no  time  was  lost  in  sending  them  to 
school,  the  moment  she  thought  them  capable  of 
imbibing  the  simplest  elements  of  instruction. 

“ It’s  hard  to  say,”  she  observed  to  her  husband, 
“ how  soon  they  may  be  useful  to  us.  Who 
knows,  P ether,  but  we  may  have  a full  shop  yit, 
an’  they  may  be  able  to  make  up  bits  of  accounts 
for  us,  poor  things?  Throth,  I’d  be  happy  if  I 
wanst  seen  it.” 

“ Faix,  Ellish,”  replied  Peter,  “ if  we  can  get 
an  as  we’re  doin’,  it  is  hard  to  say.  For  my  own 
part,  if  I had  got  the  larnin’  in  time,  I might  be  a 
bright  boy  to-day,  no  doubt  of  it — could  spake 
up  to  the  best  o’  thim.  I never  wint  to  school  but 
wanst,  an’  I remimber  I threwn  the  masther  into 
a kiln-pot,  an’  broke  the  poor  craythur’s  arm ; an’ 
from  that  day  to  this,  I never  could  be  brought 
a single  day  to  school.” 

Peter  and  Ellish  now  began  to  be  pointed  out 
as  a couple  worthy  of  imitation  by  those  who 
knew  that  perseverance  and  industry  never  fail 
of  securing  their  own  reward.  Others,  however, 
— that  is  to  say,  the  lazy,  the  profligate,  and  the 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


ignorant, — had  a ready  solution  for  the  secret  of 
their  success. 

“ Oh,  my  dear,  she’s  a lucky  woman,  an’  any- 
thing she  puts  her  hand  to  prospers.  Sure  she 
was  born  wid  a lucky  caul^"^  an  her  head;  an’, 
be  sure,  a hagur,  the  world  will  flow  in  upon  thim. 
There’s  many  a neighbour  about  thim  works  their 
Angers  to  the  stumps,  an’  yit  you  see  they  can’t 
get  an:  for  Ellish,  if  she’d  throw  the  sweepins  of 
her  hearth  to  the  wind,  it  ’ud  come  back  to  her  in 
money.  She  was  horn  to  it,  an^  nothin^  can  keep 
her  from  her  luck! "" 

Such  are  many  of  the  senseless  theories  that 
militate  against  exertion  and  industry  in  Ireland, 
and  occasion  many  to  shrink  back  from  the  laud- 
able race  of  honest  enterprise,  into  filth,  penury, 
and  crime.  It  is  this  idle  and  envious  crew,  who, 
with  a natural  aversion  to  domestic  industry,  be- 
come adepts  in  politics,  and  active  in  those  illegal 
combinations  and  outrages  which  retard  the  pros- 
perity of  the  country,  and  bring  disgrace  upon 
the  great  body  of  its  peaceable  inhabitants. 

In  the  meantime  Ellish  was  rapidly  advancing 
in  life,  while  such  persons  were  absurdly  specu- 
lating upon  the  cause  of  her  success.  Her  busi- 
ness was  not  only  increased,  but  extended. 
Erom  crockery,  herrings,  and  salt,  she  advanced 
gradually  to  deal  in  other  branches  adapted  to 
her  station,  and  the  wants  of  the  people.  She 
bought  stockings,  and  retailed  them  every 
market-day.  By  and  by  a few  pieces  of  soap 
might  be  seen  in  her  window^s:  starch,  blue, 
potash,  and  candles,  were  equally  profitable. 


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Pipes  were  seen  stuck  across  each  other,  flanked 
by  tape,  cakes,  children’s  books,  thimbles,  and 
bread.  In  fact,  she  was  equally  clever  and  ex- 
pert in  whatever  she  undertook.  The  conscious- 
ness of  this,  and  her  reputation  as  being  ‘‘  a hard 
honest  woman,”  encouraged  her  to  get  a cask  or 
two  of  beer,  and  a few  rolls  of  tobacco.  Peter, 
when  she  proposed  the  two  last,  consented  only 
to  sell  them  still  as  smuggled  goods — sub  silentio. 
With  her  usual  prudence,  however,  she  declined 
this. 

“We  have  gone  on  that  way  purty  far,”  she 
replied,  “ an’  never  got  a touch thanks  to  the 
kindness  o’  the  neighbours  that  never  informed 
an  us;  but  now,  Pether,  that  we’re  ablCj  we  had 
betther  do  everything  above  boord.  You  know 
the  ould  say,  ‘ long  runs  the  fox,  but  he’s  catched 
at  last ; ’ so  let  us  give  up  in  time,  an’  get  out  a 
little  bit  o’  licence.” 

“ I don’t  like  that  at  all,”  replied  Peter;  “ I 
can’t  warm  my  heart  to  the  licence.  I’ll  back  you 
in  anything  but  that.  The  gauger  won’t  come 
next  or  near  us : he  has  thried  it  often,  an’  never 
made  anything  of  it.  Dang  me,  but  I’d  like  to 
have  a bit  o’  fun  with  the  gauger,  to  see  if  my 
hand’s  still  ready  for  practice.” 

“ Oh,  thin,  Pether,  how  can  you  talk  that  way, 
asthore?  Now  if  what  I’m  sayin’  was  left  to 
yourself  wouldn’t  you  be  apt  to  plan  it  as  I’m 
doin’? — ^wouldn’t  you,  acushla?  Throth,  I know 
you’re  too  cute  an’  sinsible  not  to  do  it.” 

“ Why  thin,  do  you  know  what,  Ellish — 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


157 


although  I didn’t  spake  out,  upon  my  faix  I was 
thinkin’  of  it.  T)ivii  a word  o’  lie  in  it.” 

“ Oh,  you  tliief  o’  the  world,  an’  never  to  tell 
it  to  me.  Faix,  Pether,  you’re  a cunnin’  shaver, 
an’  as  deep  as  a draw  well.” 

“ Let  me  alone.  Why  I tell  you  if  I study  an’ 
lay  myself  down  to  it,  I can  conthrive  anything. 
Whin  I was  young,  many  a time  my  poor  father, 
God  be  good  to  him!  said  that  if  there  was  any 
possibility  of  gettin’  me  to  take  to  lamin’,  I’d  be 
risin’  out  o’  the  ashes  every  mornin’  like  a 
phanix.” 

“ But  won’t  you  hould  to  your  plan  about  the 
licence?  ” 

“ Hould ! To  be  sure  I will.  ^^Hiat  was  I but 
takin’  a rise  out  o’  you,  I intinded  it  this  good 
while,  you  phanix — faix,  I did.” 

In  tliis  manner  did  Ellish  dupe  her  own  hus- 
band into  increasing  wealth.  Their  business  soon 
became  so  extensive,  that  a larger  house  was  ab- 
solutely necessary.  To  leave  that,  beneath  whose 
roof  she  succeeded  so  well  in  all  her  specula- 
tions, was  a point — be  it  of  prudence  or  of 
prejudice — which  Ellish  could  not  overcome. 
Her  maxim  was,  wherever  you  find  yourself  do- 
ing well,  stay  there.  She  contrived,  however, 
to  remedy  this.  To  the  old  house  additional 
apartments  were,  from  time  to  time,  added,  into 
which  their  business  soon  extended.  When  these 
again  became  too  small,  others  were  also  built  ; 
so  that  in  the  course  of  about  twenty  years,  their 
premises  were  so  extensive,  that  the  original 


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shebeen-house  constituted  a very  small  portion  of 
Peter’s  residence.  Peter,  during  Elhsh’s  prog- 
ress within  doors,  had  not  been  idle  without.  For 
every  new  room  added  to  the  house,  he  was  able 
to  hook  in  a fresh  farm  in  addition  to  those  he 
had  already  occupied.  Unexpected  success  had 
fixed  his  heart  as  strongly  upon  the  accumulation 
of  money,  and  the  pride  of  rising  in  the  world, 
as  it  was  possible  for  a man,  to  whom  they  were 
only  adventitious  feelings,  to  experience.  The 
points  of  view  in  which  he  and  his  wife  were  con- 
templated by  the  little  public  about  them  were 
peculiar,  but  clearly  distinct.  The  wife  was  gen- 
erally esteemed  for  her  talents  and  incessant  ap- 
plication to  business ; but  she  was  not  so  cordially 
hked  as  Peter.  He,  on  the  other  hand,  though 
less  esteemed,  was  more  beloved  by  all  their 
acquaintances  than  Ellish.  This  might  probably 
originate  from  the  more  obvious  congeniality 
which  existed  between  Peter’s  natural  disposi- 
tion, and  the  national  character;  for  with  the  lat- 
ter, Ellish,  except  good  humour,  had  little  in 
common. 

The  usual  remarks  upon  both  were — “ she 
would  buy  an’  sell  him  ” — “ ’twas  she  that  made 
a man  of  him;  but  for  all  that,  Pether’s  worth 
a ship-load  of  her,  if  she’d  give  him  his  own  way.” 
That  is,  if  she  would  permit  him  to  drink  with  the 
neighbours,  to  be  idle  and  extravagant. 

Every  year,  now  that  their  capital  was  extend- 
ing, added  more  perceptibly  to  their  independ- 
ence. Elhsh’s  experience  in  the  humbler  kinds 
of  business,  trained  her  for  a higher  line;  just  as 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


150 


boys  at  school  rise  from  one  form  to  another. 
She  made  no  plunges,  nor  permitted  Peter,  who 
was  often  inclined  to  jump  at  conclusions,  to 
make  any.  Her  elevation  was  gradual  and  cau- 
tious; for  her  plans  were  always  so  seasonable 
and  simple,  that  every  new  description  of  busi- 
ness, and  every  new  success,  seemed  to  arise  natu- 
rally from  that  which  went  before  it. 

Having  once  taken  out  a license,  their  house 
soon  became  a decent  country  spirit  establish- 
ment; from  soap,  and  candles,  and  tobacco,  she 
rose  into  the  full  sweep  of  groceries;  and  from 
dealing  in  Connemara  stockings  and  tape,  she 
proceeded  in  due  time  to  sell  woollen  and  linen 
drapery.  Her  crockery  was  now  metamorphosed 
into  delf,  pottery,  and  hardware ; her  gingerbread 
into  stout  loaves,  for  as  Peter  himself  grew  wheat 
largely,  she  seized  the  opportunity  presented  by 
the  death  of  the  only  good  baker  in  the  neighbour- 
hood, of  opening  an  extensive  bakery. 

It  may  be  asked,  how  two  illiterate  persons, 
like  Peter  and  Ellish,  could  conduct  business  in 
which  so  much  calculation  was  necessary,  without 
suffering  severely  by  their  liability  to  make  mis- 
takes. To  tills  we  reply — first,  that  we  should 
have  liked  to  see  any  person  attempting  to  pass 
a bad  note  or  a light  guinea  upon  Ellish  after 
nine  or  ten  years’  experience;  we  should  like  to 
have  seen  a smug  clerk  taking  his  pen  from  be- 
hind his  ear,  and  after  making  his  calculation, 
on  inquiring  from  Ellish  if  she  had  reckoned  up 
the  amount,  compelled  to  ascertain  the  error 
which  she  pointed  out  to  him.  The  most  remark- 


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able  point  in  her  whole  character,  was  the  rapid 
accuracy  she  displayed  in  mental  calculation,  and 
her  uncommon  sagacity  in  detecting  bad  money. 

There  is,  however,  a still  more  satisfactory  ex- 
planation of  this  circumstance  to  be  given.  She 
had  not  neglected  the  education  of  her  children. 
The  eldest  was  now  an  intelligent  boy,  and  a smart 
accountant,  who,  thanks  to  his  master,  had  been 
taught  to  keep  their  books  by  Double  Entry. 
The  second  was  little  inferior  to  him  as  a clerk, 
though  as  a general  dealer  he  was  far  his  su- 
perior. The  eldest  had  been  principally  behind 
the  counter ; whilst  the  younger,  in  accompanying 
his  mother  in  all  her  transactions  and  bargain- 
making, had  in  a great  measure  imbibed  her  ad- 
dress and  tact. 

It  is  certainly  a pleasing,  and,  we  think,  an 
interesting  thing,  to  contemplate  the  enterprise 
of  an  humble,  but  active,  slirewd  woman,  enabling 
her  to  rise,  step  by  step,  from  the  lowest  state  of 
poverty  to  a small  sense  of  independence;  from 
this,  by  calling  fresh  powers  into  action,  taking 
wider  views,  and  following  them  up  by  increased 
efforts,  until  her  shebeen  becomes  a small  country 
public-house;  until  her  roll  of  tobacco,  and  her 
few  pounds  of  soap  and  starch,  are  lost  in  the 
well-filled  drawers  of  a grocery  shop;  and  her 
grey  Connemara  stockings  transformed  by  the 
golden  wand  of  industry,  into  a country  cloth 
warehouse.  To  see  Peter — from  the  time  when 
he  first  harrowed  part  of  his  farm  with  a thorn- 
bush,  and  ploughed  it  by  joining  his  horse  to 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


IGl 


to  horse,  and  cart  to  cart,  until  we  find  him  a 
wealthy  and  extensive  agriculturist. 

The  progress  of  Peter  and  Ellish  was  in  an- 
other point  of  view  a good  study  for  him  who 
wishes  to  look  into  human  nature,  whilst  adapt- 
ing itself  to  the  circumstances  through  which  it 
passes.  When  tliis  couple  began  life,  their 
friends  and  acquaintances  were  as  poor  as  them- 
selves; as  they  advanced  from  one  gradation  to 
another,  and  rose  up  from  a lower  to  a higher 
state,  their  former  friends,  who  remained  in  their 
original  poverty,  found  themselves  left  behind  in 
cordiality  and  intimacy,  as  well  as  in  circum- 
stances; whilst  the  subjects  of  our  sketch  contin- 
ued to  make  new  friendships  of  a more  respect- 
able stamp,  to  fill  up,  as  it  were,  the  places  held 
in  their  good  will  by  their  humble,  but  neglected, 
intimates.  Let  not  our  readers,  however,  con- 
demn them  for  this.  It  was  the  act  of  society, 
and  not  of  Peter  and  Elfish.  On  their  parts,  it 
was  involuntary ; their  circumstances  raised  them, 
and  they  were  compelled,  of  course,  to  rise  with 
their  circumstances.  They  were  passing  through 
the  journey  of  life,  as  it  were,  and  those  with 
whom  they  set  out,  not  having  been  able  to  keep 
up  with  them,  soon  lost  their  companionship, 
which  was  given  to  those  with  whom  they  trav- 
elled for  the  time  being.  Society  is  always  ready 
to  reward  the  enterprising  and  industrious  by  its 
just  honours,  whether  they  are  sought  or  not;  it 
is  so  disposed,  that  every  man  falls  or  rises  into 
his  proper  place  in  it,  and  that  by  the  wisdom  and 
harmony  of  its  structure.  The  rake,  who  dissi- 

III— 11 


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pates  by  profligacy  and  extravagance  that  which 
might  have  secured  him  an  honourable  place  in 
life,  is  eventually  brought  to  the  work-house; 
whilst  the  active  citizen,  who  realises  an  honest  in- 
dependence, is  viewed  with  honour  and  esteem. 

Peter  and  Ellish  were  now  people  of  conse- 
quence in  the  parish;  the  former  had  ceased  to 
do  anything  more  than  superintend  the  cultiva- 
tion of  his  farms;  the  latter  still  took  an  active 
part  in  her  own  business,  or  rather  in  the  various 
departments  of  business  which  she  carried  on. 
Peter  might  be  seen  the  first  man  abroad  in  the 
morning  proceeding  to  some  of  his  farms 
mounted  upon  a good  horse,  comfortably  dressed 
in  top  boots,  stout  corduroy  breeches,  buff  cash- 
mere  waistcoat,  and  blue  broad-cloth  coat,  to 
which  in  winter  was  added,  a strong  frieze  great- 
coat, with  a drab  velvet  collar,  and  a glazed  hat. 
Ellish  was  also  respectably  dressed,  but  still  con- 
siderably under  her  circumstances.  Her  mode 
of  travelling  to  fairs  or  markets  was  either  upon 
a common  car,  covered  with  a feather  bed  and 
quilt,  or  behind  Peter  upon  a pillion.  This  last 
method  flattered  Peter’s  vanity  very  much;  no 
man  could  ride  on  these  occasions  with  a statelier 
air.  He  kept  himself  as  erect  and  stiff  as  a 
poker,  and  brandished  the  thong  of  his  loaded 
whip,  with  the  pride  of  a gentleman  farmer. 

’Tis  true,  he  did  not  always  hear  the  sarcastic 
remarks  which  were  passed  upon  him  by  those 
who  witnessed  his  good-natured  vanity: 

“ There  he  goes,”  some  labouring  man  on  the 
wayside  would  exclaim,  “ a purse-proud  hodagh 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


1C3 


upon  our  hands.  Why,  thin,  does  he  forget  that 
we  remimber  when  he  kept  the  shebeen-house, 
an’  soiild  his  smuggled  tobaccy  in  gits  out  of 
his  pocket,  for  fraid  o’  the  gauger!  Sowl,  he’d 
show  a blue  nose,  any  way,  only  for  the  wife — 
’Twas  she  made  a man  of  him.” 

“ Faith,  an’  I,  for  one,  won’t  hear  Pether  Con- 
nell run  down,”  his  companion  would  reply;  “ he’s 
a good-hearted,  honest  man,  an’  obligin’  enough ; 
an’  for  that  matter  so  is  the  wife,  a hard  honest 
woman,  that  made  what  they  have,  an’  brought 
herself  an’  her  husband  from  nothin’  to  some- 
thin’.” 

“ Thrue  for  you,  Tim;  in  troth  they  do  desarve 
credit.  Still,  you  see,  here’s  you  an’  me,  an’ 
we’ve  both  been  slavin’  ourselves  as  much  as  they 
have,  an’  yet  you  see  how  we  are!  However, 
ifs  their  luck,  an’  there’s  no  use  in  begrudgin’  it 
to  them.” 

When  their  children  were  full  grown,  the 
mother  did  not,  as  might  have  been  supposed, 
prevent  them  from  making  a respectable  appear- 
ance. With  excellent  judgment,  she  tempered 
their  dress,  circumstances,  and  prospects  so  well 
together,  that  the  family  presented  an  admirable 
display  of  economy,  and  a decent  sense  of  inde- 
pendence. From  the  moment  they  were  able  to 
furnish  solid  proofs  of  their  ability  to  give  a com- 
fortable dinner  occasionally,  the  priest  of  the 
parish  began  to  notice  them;  and  this  new  inti- 
macy, warmed  by  the  honour  conferred  on  one 
side,  and  by  the  good  dinners  on  the  other, 
ripened  into  a strong  friendship.  For  many  a 


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long  year,  neither  Peter  nor  Ellish,  God  forgive 
them,  ever  troubled  themselves  about  going  to 
their  duty.  They  soon  became,  however,  persons 
of  too  much  importance  to  be  damned  without  an 
effort  made  for  their  salvation.  The  worthy 
gentleman  accordingly  addressed  them  on  the 
subject,  and  as  the  matter  was  one  of  perfect 
indifference  to  both,  they  had  not  the  slightest 
hesitation  to  go  to  confession — in  compliment  to 
the  priest.  We  do  not  blame  the  priest  for  this; 
God  forbid  that  we  should  quarrel  with  a man 
for  loving  a good  dinner.  If  we  ourselves  were 
a priest,  it  is  very  probable — nay,  from  the  zest 
with  which  we  approach  a good  dinner,  it  is  quite 
certain — that  we  would  have  cultivated  honest 
Peter’s  acquaintance,  and  drawn  him  out  to  the 
practice  of  that  most  social  of  virtues — hospital- 
ity. The  salvation  of  such  a man’s  soul  was 
worth  looking  after;  and,  indeed,  we  find  a much 
warmer  interest  felt,  in  all  churches,  for  those 
who  are  able  to  ^ve  good  dinners,  than  for  those 
poor  miserable  sinners  who  can  scarcely  get  even 
a bad  one. 

But  besides  this,  there  was  another  reason  for 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Mulcahy’s  anxiety  to  cultivate  a 
friendship  with  Peter  and  his  wife — which  reason 
consisted  in  a very  laudable  determination  to 
bring  about  a match  between  his  own  niece.  Miss 
Granua  Mulcahy  and  Peter’s  eldest  son,  Dan. 
This  speculation  he  had  not  yet  broached  to  the 
family,  except  by  broken  hints,  and  jocular  allu- 
sions to  the  very  flattering  proposals  that  had 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


165 


been  made  by  many  substantial  young  men  for 
Miss  Granua. 

In  the  mean  time  the  wealth  of  the  Connells 
had  accumulated  to  thousands;  their  business  in 
the  linen  and  woollen  drapery  line  was  incred- 
ible. There  was  scarcely  a gentleman  within 
many  miles  of  them,  who  did  not  find  it  his  in- 
terest to  give  them  his  custom.  In  the  hardware, 
flour,  and  baking  concerns,  they  were  equally  for- 
tunate. The  report  of  their  wealth  had  gone  far 
and  near,  exaggerated,  however,  as  everything  of 
the  kind  is  certain  to  be;  but  still  there  were 
ample  grounds  for  estimating  it  at  a very  high 
amount. 

Their  stores  were  large,  and  well  filled  with 
many  a valuable  bale;  their  cellars  well  stocked 
with  every  description  of  spirits;  and  their  shop, 
though  not  large  in  proportion  to  their  trans- 
actions, was  well  filled,  neat,  and  tastefully  fitted 
up.  There  was  no  show,  however — no  empty 
glare  to  catch  the  eye ; on  the  contrary,  the  whole 
concern  was  marked  by  an  air  of  solid,  warm  com- 
fort, that  was  much  more  indicative  of  wealth 
and  independence,  than  tawdry  embelhshment 
would  have  been. 

“ Avourneen,”  said  Ellish,  “ the  way  to  deck 
out  your  shop  is  to  keep  the  best  of  goods. 
Wanst  the  people  knows  that  they’ll  get  betther 
money-worth  here  than  they’ll  get  anywhere  else, 
they’ll  come  here,  whether  the  shop  looks  well  or 
ill.  Not  sayin’  but  every  shop  ought  to  be  clane 
an’  dacent,  for  there’s  rason  in  all  things.” 


166 


IRELAND 


This,  indeed,  was  another  secret  of  their  suc- 
cess. Every  article  in  their  shop  was  of  the  best 
description,  having  been  selected  by  Ellish’s  own 
eye  and  hand  in  the  metropolis,  or  imported 
directly  from  the  place  of  its  manufacture.  Her 
periodical  visits  to  Dublin  gave  her  great  satis- 
faction; for  it  appears  that  those  with  whom  she 
dealt,  having  had  sufficient  discrimination  to  ap- 
preciate her  talents  and  integrity,  treated  her  with 
marked  respect. 

Peter’s  farm-yard  bore  much  greater  evidence 
of  his  wealth,  than  did  Ellish’s  shop.  It  was  cer- 
tainly surprising  to  reflect,  that  by  the  capacity 
of  two  illiterate  persons,  who  began  the  world 
with  nothing,  all  the  best  and  latest  improvements 
in  farming  were  either  adopted  or  anticipated. 
The  farm-yard  was  upon  a great  scale;  for  Peter 
cultivated  no  less  than  four  hundred  acres  of 
land — to  such  lengths  had  his  enterprise  carried 
him.  Threshing  machines,  large  barns,  corn- 
kilns,  large  stacks,  extensive  stables,  and  immense 
cow-houses,  together  with  the  incessant  din  of 
active  employment  perpetually  going  on — all 
gave  a very  high  opinion  of  their  great  prosper- 
ity, and  certainly  reflected  honour  upon  those 
whose  exertions  had  created  such  a scene  about 
them.  One  would  naturally  suppose,  when  the 
family  of  the  Connells  had  arrived  to  such  unex- 
pected riches,  and  found  it  necessary  to  conduct 
a system  whose  machinery  was  so  complicated 
and  extensive,  that  Ellish  would  have  fallen  back 
to  the  simple  details  of  business,  from  a deficiency 
of  that  comprehensive  intelligence  which  is  requi- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


167 


site  to  conduct  the  higher  order  of  mercantile 
transactions ; especially  as  her  sons  were  ad- 
mirably qualified  by  practice,  example,  and  edu- 
cation, to  ease  her  of  a task,  which  would  appear 
one  of  too  much  difficulty  for  an  unlettered  farm- 
er’s wife.  Such  a supposition  would  be  injurious 
to  this  excellent  woman.  So  far  from  this  being 
the  case,  she  was  still  the  moving  spirit,  the  cliief 
conductor  of  the  establishment.  Whenever  any 
difficulty  arose  that  required  an  effort  of  inge- 
nuity and  sagacity,  she  was  able  in  the  homeliest 
words  to  disentangle  it  so  happily,  that  those  who 
heard  her  wondered  that  it  should  at  all  have 
appeared  to  them  as  a difficulty.  She  was  every- 
where. In  Peter’s  farm-yard  her  advice  was  as 
excellent  and  as  useful  as  in  her  own  shop.  On 
his  farms  she  was  the  better  agriculturist,  and  she 
frequently  set  him  right  in  his  plans  and  specula- 
tions for  the  ensuing  year. 

She  herself  was  not  ignorant  of  her  sldll. 
Many  a time  has  she  surveyed  the  scene  about  her 
with  an  eye  in  which  something  like  conscious 
pride  might  be  seen  to  kindle.  On  those  occasions 
she  usually  shook  her  head,  and  exclaimed,  either 
in  soHloquy,  or  by  way  of  dialogue,  to  some  per- 
son near  her: — 

‘‘  Well,  avourneen,  all’s  very  right,  an’  goin’ 
an  bravely;  but  I only  hope  that  when  Fm  gone 
I won’t  be  missed!  ” 

“ Missed,”  Peter  would  reply,  if  he  happened 
to  hear  her;  “oh,  upon  my  credit” — he  was  a 
man  of  too  much  consequence  to  swear  “ by  this 
an’  by  that  ” now — “ upon  my  credit,  Ellish,  if 


168  IRELAND 

you  die  soon,  you’ll  see  the  ginteel  wife  I’ll  have 
in  your  place.” 

“Whisht,  avourneen!  Although  you’re  but 
jokin’,  I don’t  like  to  hear  it,  a villish!  No,  in- 
deed ; we  wor  too  long  together,  P ether,  and  lived 
too  happily  wid  one  another,  for  you  to  have  the 
heart  to  think  of  sich  a thing!  ” 

“No,  in  troth,  Ellish,  I would  be  long  sarry 
to  do  it.  It’s  displasin’  to  you,  achree,  an’  I won’t 
say  it.  God  spare  you  to  us  1 It  was  you  put  the 
bone  in  us,  an’  that’s  what  all  the  country  says, 
big  an’  little,  young  an’  ould;  an’  God  he  knows 
it’s  truth,  and  nothin’  else.” 

“ Indeed,  no,  thin,  Pether,  it’s  not  altogether 
thruth,  you  desarve  your  full  share  of  it.  You 
backed  me  well,  acushla,  in  everything,  an’  if  you 
had  been  a dhrinkin,  idle,  rollikin’  vagabone,  what 
’ud  signify  all,  that  me  or  the  likes  o’  me  could 
do.” 

“ Faith,  an’  it  was  you  made  me  what  I am, 
Elhsh;  you  tuck  the  soft  side  o’  me,  you  beauty; 
an’  it’s  well  you  did,  for  by  this — ^hem,  upon  my 
reputation,  if  you  had  gone  to  cross  purposes 
wid  me,  you’d  find  yourself  in  the  wrong  box. 
An’,  you  phanix  o’  beauty,  you  managed  the 
childhre,  the  crathurs,  the  same  way — an’  a good 
way  it  is,  in  throth.” 

“ Pether,  wor  you  ever  thinkin’  o’  Father  Mul- 
cahy’s  sweetness  to  us  of  late?  ” 

“No,  thin,  the  sorra  one  o’  me  thought  of  it. 
Why,  Ellish?  ” 

“ Didn’t  you  obsarve  that  for  the  last  three  or 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


1G9 


four  months  he’s  full  of  attintions  to  us?  Every 
Sunday  he  brings  you  up,  an’  me,  if  Fd  go,  to 
the  althar,  an’  keeps  you  there  by  way  of  showin’ 
you  respect.  Pether,  it’s  not  you,  but  your  money 
he  respects;  an’  I think  there  ought  to  be  no 
respect  o’  persons  in  the  chapel,  any  how.  You’re 
not  a bit  nearer  God  by  bein’  near  the  althar; 
for  how  do  we  know  but  the  poorest  crathur 
there  is  nearer  to  heaven  than  we  are!  ” 

“ Faith,  sure  enough,  Ellish;  but  what  deep 
skame  are  you  penethratin,  now,  you  desaver?  ” 
“ I’d  lay  my  life,  you’ll  have  a proposial  o’  mar- 
riage from  Father  Mulcahy,  atween  our  Dan  an’ 
Miss  Granua.  For  many  a day  he’s  hintin’  to 
us,  from  time  to  time,  about  the  great  offers  she 
had;  now  what’s  the  rason,  if  she  had  these  great 
offers,  that  he  didn’t  take  them?  ” 

“ Bedad,  Ellish,  you’re  the  greatest  head-piece 
in  all  Europe.  Murdher  alive,  woman,  what  a 
fine  counsellor  you’d  make.  An’  suppose  he  did 
offer,  Ellish,  what  ’ud  you  be  sayin’  to  him?  ” 

“ Why,  that  ’ud  depind  entirely  upon  what  he’s 
able  to  give  her — they  say  he  has  money.  It  ’ud 
depind,  too,  upon  whether  Dan  has  any  likin’  for 
her  or  not.” 

‘‘He’s  often  wid  her,  I know;  an’  I needn’t 
tell  you,  Ellish,  that  afore  we  wor  spliced  to- 
gether, I was  often  wid  somebody  that  I won’t 
mintion.  At  all  evints,  he  has  made  Dan  put 
the  big  O afore  the  Connell,  so  that  he  has  him 
now  full  namesake  to  the  Counsellor;  an’,  faith, 
that  itself  ^ud  get  him  a wifeF 


170 


IRELAND 


“ Well,  the  best  way  is  to  say  nothin’,  an’  to 
hear  nothin’,  till  his  Reverence  spakes  out,  an’ 
thin  we’ll  see  what  can  be  done.” 

Ellish’s  sagacity  had  not  misled  her.  In  a few 
months  afterwards  F ather  Mulcahy  was  asked  by 
young  Dan  Connell  to  dine ; and  as  he  and  honest 
Ellish  were  sitting  together,  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  the  priest  broached  the  topic  as  fol- 
lows : — 

“ Mrs.  Connell,  I think  this  whiskey  is  better 
than  my  four-year  old,  that  I bought  at  the  auc- 
tion the  other  day,  although  Dan  says  mine’s 
better.  Between  ourselves,  that  Dan  is  a clever, 
talented  young  fellow;  and  if  he  happens  upon 
a steady,  sensible  wife,  there  is  no  doubt  but  he 
will  die  a respectable  man.  But,  by  the  by,  Mrs. 
Connell,  you’ve  never  tried  my  whiskey;  and, 
upon  my  credit,  you  must  soon,  for  I Imow  your 
opinion  would  decide  the  question.” 

“ Is  it  worth  while  to  decide  it,  your  Rever- 
ence? I suppose  the  thruth  is.  Sir,  that  both  is 
good  enough  for  any  one;  an’  I think  that’s  as 
much  as  we  want.” 

Thus  far  she  went,  but  never  alluded  to  Dan, 
judiciously  throwing  the  onus  of  introducing  that 
subject  upon  the  priest. 

“Dan  says  mine’s  better,”  observed  Father 
Mulcahy;  “and  I would  certainly  give  a great 
deal  for  his  opinion  upon  that  or  any  other  sub- 
ject, except  theology.” 

“ You  ought,”  replied  Ellish,  “ to  be  a betther 
judge  of  whiskey  nor  either  Dan  nor  me;  an’ 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


171 


I’ll  tell  you  why — you  dhrink  it  in  more  places, 
and  can  make  comparishment  one  wid  another; 
but  Dan  an’  me  is  confined  mostly  to  our  own, 
an’  of  that  same  we  take  very  little,  an’  the  less 
the  betther  for  people  in  business,  or  indeed  for 
anybody.” 

“ Very  true,  Mrs.  Connell!  But  for  all  that, 
I won’t  give  up  Dan’s  judgment  in  anything 
within  his  own  line  of  business,  still  excepting 
theology,  for  which  he  hasn’t  the  learning.” 

“ He’s  a good  son,  without  tayoXogy — as  good 
as  ever  broke  the  world’s  bread,”  said  Peter, 
“ glory  be  to  God!  Although,  for  that  matther, 
he  ought  to  be  as  well  acquainted  wid  tay-o\ogy 
as  your  Reverence,  in  regard  that  he  sells  more  of 
it  nor  you  do.” 

“ A good  son,  they  say,  Mrs.  Connell,  will 
make  a good  husband.  I wonder  you  don’t  think 
of  settling  him  in  life.  It’s  full  time.” 

“ Father,  avourneen,  we  must  lave  that  wdd 
himself.  I needn’t  be  telhn’  you,  that  it  ’ud  be 
hard  to  find  a girl  able  to  bring  what  the  girl 
that  ’ud  expect  Dan  ought  to  bring.” 

This  was  a staggerer  to  the  priest,  who  re- 
cruited his  ingenuity  by  drinking  Peter’s  health, 
and  Ellish’s. 

“ Have  you  nobody  in  your  eye  for  him,  Mrs. 
Connell?  ” 

“Faith,  I’ll  engage  she  has,”  replied  Peter, 
with  a ludicrous  grin — “ I’ll  venture  for  to  say 
she  has  that/^ 

“ Very  right,  Mrs.  Connell ; it’s  all  fair.  Might 


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one  ask  who  she  is ; for,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Dan 
is  a favourite  of  mine,  and  I must  make  it  a point 
to  see  him  well  settled.” 

“ Why,  your  Reverence,”  replied  Peter  again, 
‘‘  jist  the  one  you  mintioned.” 

“Who?  I?  Why  I mentioned  nohodyf^ 

“ An’  tJiafs  the  very  one  she  has  in  her  eye  for 
him,  plase  your  Reverence — ha,  ha,  ha!  What’s 
the  world  widout  a joke,  Docthor?  beggin’  your 
pardon  for  makin’  so  free  wid  you.” 

“ Peter,  you’re  still  a wag,”  replied  the  priest; 
“ but,  seriously,  Mrs.  Connell,  have  you  selected 
any  female  of  respectable  connexions,  as  a likely 
person  to  be  a wife  for  Dan?  ” 

“ Indeed  no,  your  Reverence;  I have  not. 
Where  could  I pitch  upon  a girl — barrin’  a Prot- 
estant, an’  that  ’ud  never  do — ^who  has  a fortune 
to  meet  what  Dan’s  to  get?  ” 

The  priest  moved  his  chair  a little,  and  drank 
their  healths  a second  time. 

“ But  you  know,  Mrs.  Connell,  that  Dan 
needn’t  care  so  much  about  fortune,  if  he  got  a 
girl  of  respectable  connexions.  He  has  an  inde- 
pendence himself.” 

“ Thrue  for  you,  father;  but  what  right  would 
any  girl  have  to  expect  to  be  supported  by  the 
hard  arnin’  of  me  an’  my  husband,  widout 
bringin’  somethin’  forrid  herself?  You  know. 
Sir,  that  the  fortune  always  goes  wid  the  wife; 
but  am  I to  fortune  off  my  son  to  a girl  that  has 
nothin’  ? If  my  son,  plase  your  Reverence,  hadn’t 
a coat  to  his  back,  or  a guinea  in  his  pocket — as. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


173 


God  be  praised,  he  has  both — but,  supposin’  he 
hadn’t,  what  right  would  he  have  to  expect  a girl 
wid  a handsom  fortune  to  marry  him?  There’s 
Paddy  Neill,  your  sarvant-boy;  now,  if  Paddy, 
who’s  an  honest  man’s  son,  axed  your  niece, 
wouldn’t  you  be  apt  to  lose  your  timper?  ” 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Connell,  I think 
your  fire’s  rather  hot — allow  me  to  draw  back  a 
little.  Mrs.  Connell,  your  health  again! — Mr. 
Connell,  your  fire-side.” 

Thank  you,  Docthor;  but  faith  I think  you 
ought  hardly  to  dhrink  the  same  fire-side,  becase 
it  appears  to  be  rather  hot  for  your  Reverence,  at 
the  present  time — ha,  ha,  ha!  Jokin’  still,  Doc- 
thor, we  must  be.  Well,  what  harm!  I wish  we 
may  never  do  worse ! ” 

“ And  what  fortune  would  you  expect  with  a 
girl  of  genteel  connexions — a girl  that’s  accom- 
plished, we’ll  say  in  music,  plain  work,  and  Irish, 
vernacularly? — hem!  What  fortune  would  you 
be  expecting  with  such  a girl?  ” 

Why,  Docthor,  ahagur,  the  only  music  I’d 
wish  for  my  son’s  wife  is  a good  timper;  an’  that’s 
what  their  music-masthers  can’t  tache  thim.  The 
plain  work,  although  I don’t  know  what  you 
mane  by  it,  sounds  well  enough;  an’  as  to  Irish, 
which-whackularly , if  you  mane  our  own  ould 
tongue,  he  may  get  thousands  that  can  spake  it 
whackinly,  an’  nothin’  else.” 

“ You’re  a wealthy  woman,  certainly,  Mrs. 
Connell,  and  what’s  more,  I’m  not  at  all  sur- 
prised at  it.  Your  health,  once  more,  and  long 


174 


IRELAND 


life  to  you!  Suppose,  however,  that  Dan  got 
a fitting  wife,  what  would  you  expect  as  a proper 
portion?  I have  a reason  for  asking.” 

“Dan,  plase  your  Reverence,  will  get  four 
thousand  to  begin  the  world  wid;  an’,  as  he’s  to 
expect  none  but  a Catholic,  I suppose  if  he  gets 
the  fourth  part  of  that,  it’s  as  much  as  he  ought 
to  look  for.” 

“ A thousand  pounds ! — hut  tut  I The  woman’s 
beside  herself.  Why  look  about  you,  and  try 
where  you  can  find  a Catholic  girl  with  a thou- 
sand pounds  fortune,  except  in  a gentleman’s 
family,  where  Dan  could  never  think  of  going.” 

“ That’s  thrue,  any  how,  your  Reverence,”  ob- 
served Peter. — “A  thousand  pounds!  Ellish! 
you  needn’t  look  for  it.  Where  is  it  to  be  had 
out  of  a gintleman’s  family,  as  his  Reverence 
says  thrue  enough.” 

“ An’  now,  Docthor,”  said  Ellish,  “ what  ’ud 
you  think  a girl  ought  to  bring  a young  man 
like  Dan,  that’s  to  have  four  thousand  pounds?  ” 

“ I don’t  think  any  Catholic  girl  of  his  own 
rank  in  the  county,  could  get  more  than  a couple 
of  hundred.” 

“ That’s  one  shillin’  to  every  pound  he  has,” 
replied  Ellish,  almost  instantaneously.  “ But, 
Father,  you  may  as  well  spake  out  at  wanst,”  she 
continued,  for  she  was  too  quick  and  direct  in  all 
her  dealings  to  he  annoyed  by  circumlocution; 
“ you’re  desairous  of  a match  between  Dan  an’ 
Miss  Granua?  ” 

“ Exactly,”  said  the  priest;  “ and  what  is  more, 
I believe  they  are  fond  of  each  other.  I know 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


175 


Dan  is  attached  to  her,  for  he  told  me  so.  But, 
now  that  we  have  mentioned  her,  I say  that  there 
is  not  a more  accomplished  girl  of  her  persuasion 
in  the  parish  we  sit  in.  She  can  play  on  the  bag- 
pipes better  than  any  other  piper  in  the  province, 
for  I taught  her  myself ; and  I tell  you  that  in 
a respectable  man’s  wife  a knowledge  of  music 
is  a desirable  thing.  It’s  hard  to  tell,  Mrs.  Con- 
nell, how  they  may  rise  in  the  world,  and  get  into 
fashionable  company,  so  that  accomplishments, 
you  persave,  are  good.  She  can  make  a shirt  and 
wash  it,  and  she  can  write  Irish.  As  for  dancing, 

I only  wish  you’d  see  her  at  a hornpipe.  All 
these  things  put  together,  along  with  her  genteel 
connexions,  and  the  prospect  of  what  I may  be 
able  to  lave  her — I say  your  son  may  do  worse.” 

“ It’s  not  what  you’d  lave  her,  sir,  but  what 
you’d  give  her  in  the  first  place,  that  I’d  like  to 
hear.  Spake  up,  your  Reverence,  an’  let  us  know 
how  far  you  will  go.” 

“ I’m  afeard.  Sir,”  said  Peter,  “ if  it  goes  to 
a clane  bargain  atween  yez,  that  Ellish  will  make 
you  bid  up  for  Dan.  Be  sharp.  Sir,  or  you’ll 
have  no  chance;  faix,  you  won’t.” 

“ But,  Mrs.  Connell,”  replied  the  priest,  “ be- 
fore I spake  up,  consider  her  accomplishments. 
I’ll  undertake  to  say,  that  the  best  bred  girl  in 
Dublin  cannot  perform  music  in  such  style,  or 
on  such  an  instrument  as  the  one  she  uses.  Let 
us  contemplate  Dan  and  her  after  marriage,  in  i 
an  elegant  house,  and  full  business,  the  dinner  ' 
over,  and  they  gone  up  to  the  drawing-room. 
Think  how  agreeable  and  graceful  it  would  be  for 


176 


IRELAND 


Mrs.  Daniel  O’Connell  to  repair  to  the  sofa, 
among  a few  respectable  friends,  and,  taking  up 
her  bag-pipes,  set  her  elbow  a-going,  until  the 
drone  gives  tv/o  or  three  broken  groans,  and  the 
chanter  a squeak  or  two,  like  a child  in  the  cholic, 
or  a cat  that  you  had  trampled  on  by,  accident. 
Then  comes  the  real  ould  Irish  music,  that  warms 
the  heart.  Dan  looks  upon  her  graceful  position, 
until  the  tears  of  love,  taste,  and  admiration  are 
coming  down  his  cheeks.  By  and  by,  the  toe  of 
him  moves:  here  another  foot  is  going;  and,  in 
no  time,  there  is  a hearty  dance,  with  a light  heart 
and  a good  conscience.  You  or  I perhaps,  drop 
in  to  see  them,  and,  of  course,  we  partake  of  the 
enjoyment.” 

“ Divil  a pleasanter,”  said  Peter:  “ I tell  you, 
I’d  like  it  well;  an’,  for  my  own  part,  if  the  de- 
ludher  here  has  no  objection,  Fm  not  goin’  to 
spoil  sport.” 

Ellish  looked  hard  at  the  priest;  her  keen  blue 
eye  glittered  with  a sparkling  light,  that  gave  de- 
cided proofs  of  her  sagacity  being  intensely  ex- 
cited. 

“ All  that  you’ve  said,”  she  replied,  “ is  very 
fine;  but  in  regard  o’  the  bag-pipes,  an’  Miss 
Granua  Mulcahy’s  squeezin’  the  music  out  o’  thim 
— why,  if  it  plased  God  to  bring  my  son  to  the 
staff  an’  bag — a common  beggar — ^indeed,  in 
that  case.  Miss  Granua’s  bagpipes  might  sarve 
both  o’  thim,  an’  help,  maybe,  to  get  them  a 
night’s  lodgin’  or  so;  but  until  that  time  comes, 
if  you  respect  your  niece,  you’ll  burn  her  bag- 
pipes, dhrone,  chanther,  an’  all.  If  you  are  for 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


177 


a match,  which  I doubt,  spake  out,  as  I said,  and 
say  what  fortune  you’ll  pay  down  on  the  nail 
wid  her,  otherwise  we’re  losin’  our  time,  an’  that’s 
a loss  one  can’t  make  up.” 

The  priest,  who  thought  he  could  have  bantered 
Ellish  into  an  alliance,  without  pledging  himself 
to  pay  any  specific  fortune,  found  that  it  was 
necessary  for  him  to  treat  the  matter  seriously, 
if  he  expected  to  succeed.  He  was  certainly  anx- 
ious for  the  match;  and  as  he  really  wished  to 
see  his  niece — who,  in  truth,  was  an  excellent  girl, 
and  handsome — well  settled,  he  resolved  to  make 
a stretch  and  secure  Dan  if  possible. 

“ Mrs.  Connell,”  said  he,  “ I will  be  brief  with 
you.  The  most  I can  give  her  is  three  hundred 
pounds,  and  even  that  by  struggling  and  bor- 
rowing. I will  undertake  to  pay  it  as  you  say — 
on  the  nail!  for  I am  really  anxious  that  my  niece 
should  be  connected  with  so  worthy  and  indus- 
trious a family.  What  do  you  say?  ” 

Fm  willin’  enough,”  replied  Peter.  “ It’s 
not  asy  to  get  that  wid  a Catholic  girl.” 

“ There’s  some  thruth  in  what  you  say,  aroon, 
sure  enough,”  observed  Ellish ; ‘‘  an’  if  his  Rev- 
erence puts  another  hundhre  to  it,  why,  in  the 
name  of  goodness,  let  them  go  together.  If  you 
don’t  choose  that,  Docthor,  never  breathe  the  sub- 
ject to  me  agin.  Dan’s  not  an  ould  man  yit,  an’ 
has  time  enough  to  get  wives  in  plenty.” 

“ Come,”  replied  the  priest,  “ there’s  my  hand, 
it’s  a bargain ; although  I must  say  there’s  no  re- 
moving you  from  your  point.  I will  give  four 
hundred,  hook  or  crook;  but  I’ll  have  sad  scram- 

III— 12 


178 


IRELAND 


bling  to  get  it  together.  Still  I’ll  make  it  good.” 
“ Down  on  the  nail?  ” inquired  Ellish. 

“Ay!  ay!  Down  on  the  nail,”  replied  the 
priest. 

“ Well,  in  the  name  o’  Goodness,  a bargain 
be  it,”  said  Peter;  “ but,  upon  my  credit,  Ellish, 
I won’t  have  the  bag-pipes  burnt,  any  how. 
Faith,  I must  hear  an  odd  tune,  now  an’  thin, 
when  I call  to  see  the  childhre.” 

“ Pether,  acushla,  have  sinse.  Would  you  wish 
to  see  your  daughter-in-law  playin’  upon  the  bag- 
pipes, when  she  ought  to  be  mindin’  her  business, 
or  attendin’  her  childhre?  No,  your  reverence, 
the  pipes  must  be  laid  aside.  I’ll  have  no  piperly 
connexion  for  a son  of  mine.” 

The  priest  consented  to  this,  although  Peter 
conceded  it  with  great  reluctance.  Further  pre- 
liminaries were  agreed  upon,  and  the  evening 
passed  pleasantly,  until  it  became  necessary  for 
Mr.  Mulcahy  to  bid  them  good  night. 

When  they  were  gone,  Peter  and  Ellish  talked 
over  the  matter  between  themselves  in  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue: 

“ The  fortune’s  a small  one,”  said  Ellish  to  her 
husband ; “ an’  I suppose  you  wondher  that  I con- 
sinted  to  take  so  little.” 

“ Sure  enough,  I wondhered  at  it,”  replied 
Peter;  “ but,  for  my  own  part,  I’d  give  my  son 
to  her  widout  a penny  o’  fortune,  in  ordher  to  be 
connected  wid  the  priest ; an’  besides,  she’s  a fine, 
handsome,  good  girl — ay,  an’  his  fill  of  a wife,  if 
she  had  but  the  shift  to  her  back.” 

“Four  hundhre  wid  a priest’s  niece,  Pether, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


179 


is  before  double  the  money  wid  any  other.  Don’t 
you  know,  that  when  they  set  up  for  themselves, 
he  can  bring  the  custom  of  the  whole  parish  to 
them?  It’s  unknown  the  number  o’  ways  he  can 
sarve  them  in.  Sure,  at  stations  an’  weddins, 
wakes,  marriages,  and  funerals,  they’ll  all  be 
proud  to  let  the  priest  know  that  they  purchased 
whatever  they  wanted  from  his  niece  an’  her  hus- 
band. Betther! — faix,  four  hundhre  from  him 
is  worth  three  times  as  much  from  another.” 

“Glory  to  you,  Ellish! — bright  an’  cute  for 
ever!  Why,  I’d  back  you  for  a woman  that 
could  buy  an’  sell  Europe,  aginst  the  world. 
Now,  isn’t  it  odd  that  I never  think  of  these  long- 
headed skames?  ” 

“Ay  do  you,  often  enough,  Pether;  but  you 
keep  them  to  yourself,  abouchal.” 

“ Faith,  I’m  close,  no  doubt  of  it;  an’ — but 
there’s  no  use  in  sayin’  any  more  about  it — you 
said  whatsomever  came  into  my  own  head  con- 
sarnin’  it.  Faith,  you  did,  you  phanix.” 

In  a short  time  the  marriage  took  place.  Dan, 
under  the  advice  of  his  mother,  purchased  a piece 
of  ground  most  advantageously  located,  as  the 
site  of  a mill,  whereon  an  excellent  one  was  built ; 
and  as  a good  mill  had  been  long  a desideratum 
in  the  country,  his  success  was  far  beyond  his 
expectations.  Every  speculation,  in  fact,  which 
Ellish  touched,  prospered.  Fortune  seemed  to 
take  delight,  either  in  accomplishing,  or  antici- 
pating her  wishes.  At  least,  such  was  the  gen- 
eral opinion,  although  nothing  could  possibly  be 
more  erroneous  than  to  attribute  her  success  to 


180 


IRELAND 


mere  chance.  The  secret  of  all  might  be  ascribed 
to  her  good  sense,  and  her  exact  knowledge  of 
the  precise  moment  when  to  take  the  tide  of  for- 
tune at  its  flow.  Her  son,  in  addition  to  the  mill, 
opened  an  extensive  mercantile  establishment  in 
the  next  town,  where  he  had  ample  cause  to  bless 
the  instructions  of  his  mother,  and  her  foresight 
in  calculating  upon  the  advantage  of  being  mar- 
ried to  the  priest’s  niece. 

Soon  after  his  marriage,  the  person  who  had 
for  many  years  kept  the  head  inn  of  the  next 
town  died,  and  the  establishment  was  advertised 
for  sale.  Ellish  was  immediately  in  action. 
Here  was  an  opportunity  of  establishing  the  sec- 
ond son  in  a situation  which  had  enabled  the  late 
proprietor  of  it  to  die  nearly  the  richest  man  in 
the  parish.  A few  days,  therefore,  before  that 
specified  for  the  sale,  she  took  her  featherbed  car, 
and  had  an  interview  with  the  executors  of  the 
late  proprietor.  Her  character  was  known,  her 
judgment  and  integrity  duly  estimated,  and,  per- 
haps, what  was  the  weightiest  argument  in  her 
favour,  her  purse  was  forthcoming  to  complete 
the  offer  she  had  made.  After  some  private  con- 
versation between  the  executors,  her  proposal  was 
accepted,  and  before  she  returned  home,  the  head 
inn,  together  with  all  its  fixtures  and  furniture, 
was  her  property. 

The  second  son,  who  was  called  after  his  father, 
received  the  intelligence  with  delight.  One  of 
his  sisters  was,  at  his  mother’s  suggestion,  ap- 
pointed to  conduct  the  house-keeping  department. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


181 


and  keep  the  bar,  a duty  for  which  she  was  pretty 
well  qualified  by  her  experience  at  home. 

“ I will  paint  it  in  great  style,”  said  Peter  the 
Younger.  “ It  must  be  a head  Inn  no  longer; 
I’ll  call  it  a Hotel,  for  that’s  the  whole  fashion.” 

“ It  wants  little,  avourneen,”  said  his  mother; 
“ it  was  well  kep : some  paintin’  an’  other  improve- 
ments it  does  want,  but  don’t  be  extravagant. 
Have  it  clane  an’  dacent,  but,  above  all  things, 
comfortable,  an’  the  attindance  good.  That’s 
what’ll  carry  you  an — not  a flourish  o’  paintin’ 
outside,  an’  dirt,  an’  confusion,  an’  bad  attindance 
widin.  Considher,  Pether  darlin’,  that  the  man 
who  owned  it  last,  feathered  his  nest  well  in  it, 
but  never  called  it  a Hotill.  Let  it  appear  on 
the  outside  jist  as  your  ould  customers  used  to 
see  it;  but  improve  it  widin  as  much  as  you  can, 
widout  bein’  lavish  an  it,  or  takin’  up  the  place 
wid  nonsense.” 

“ At  all  evints.  I’ll  have  a picture  of  the  Lib- 
erator over  the  door,  and  ‘ O’Connell  ’ written 
under  it.  It’s  both  our  names,  and  besides  it  will 
be  ‘ killin’  two  birds  with  one  stone.’  ” 

“No,  avourneen.  Let  me  advise  you,  if  you 
wish  to  prosper  in  life,  to  keep  yourself  out  of 
party-work.  It  only  stands  betune  you  an’  your 
business;  an’  it’s  surely  wiser  for  you  to  mind 
your  own  affairs  than  the  affairs  of  the  nation. 
There’s  rason  in  everything.  No  man  in  trade 
has  a right,  widout  committin’  a sin,  to  neglect 
his  family  for  politics  or  parties.  There’s  Jack 
Cummins  that  was  doin’  well  in  his  groceries,  till 


182 


IRELAND 


he  began  to  make  speeches,  an’  get  up  pubhc 
meetins,  an’  write  petitions,  an’  now  he  has  nothin’ 
to  throuble  him  but  politics,  for  his  business  is 
gone.  Every  one  has  liberty  to  think  as  they 
plase.  We  can’t  expect  Protestants  to  think  as 
we  do,  nor  Protestants  can’t  suppose  that  we 
ought  to  think  as  they’d  wish;  an’  for  that  same 
rason,  we  should  make  allowance  on  both  sides, 
an’  not  be  like  many  we  know,  that  have  their 
minds  up,  expectin’  they  don’t  know  what,  instead 
of  workin’  for  themselves  and  their  families  as 
they  ought  to  do.  Pether,  won’t  you  give  that 
up,  a villish?  ” 

“ I believe  you’re  right,  mother.  I didn’t  see 
it  before  in  the  light  you’ve  placed  it  in.” 

“ Then,  Pether,  darlin’,  lose  no  time  in  gettin’ 
into  your  place — you  an’  Alley;  an’  faix,  if  you 
don’t  both  manage  it  cleverly.  I’ll  never  spake 
to  yez.” 

Here  was  a second  son  settled,  and  nothing 
remained  but  to  dispose  of  their  two  daughters 
in  marriage  to  the  best  and  most  advantageous 
offers.  This,  in  consequence  of  their  large  for- 
tunes, was  not  a matter  of  much  difficulty.  The 
eldest.  Alley,  who  assisted  her  brother  to  conduct 
the  Inn,  became  the  wife  of  an  extensive  grazier, 
who  lived  in  an  adjoining  county.  The  younger, 
Mary,  was  joined  to  Father  Mulcahy’s  nephew, 
not  altogether  to  the  satisfaction  of  the  mother, 
who  feared  that  two  establishments  of  the  same 
kind,  in  the  same  parish,  supported  by  the  same 
patronage,  must  thrive  at  the  expense  of  each 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


183 


other.  As  it  was  something  of  a love-match, 
however,  she  ultimately  consented. 

“ Avourneen,”  said  she,  “ the  parish  is  big 
enough,  an’  has  customers  enough  to  support  two 
o’  them;  an’  I’ll  engage  his  Reverence  will  do 
what  he  can  for  them  both.” 

In  the  mean  time,  neither  she  nor  her  husband 
was  dependent  upon  their  children.  Peter  still 
kept  the  agricultural  department  in  operation; 
and  although  the  shop  and  warehouse  were  trans- 
ferred to  Mr.  Mulcahy,  in  right  of  his  wife,  yet 
it  was  under  the  condition  of  paying  a yearly 
sum  to  Mrs.  Connell  and  her  husband,  ostensibly 
as  a provision,  but  really  as  a spur  to  their  exer- 
tions. A provision  they  could  not  want,  for  their 
wealth  still  amounted  to  thousands,  independ- 
ently of  the  large  annual  profits  arising  out  of 
their  farms. 

For  some  time  after  the  marriage  of  her  young- 
est daughter,  Mrs.  Connell  took  a very  active 
part  in  her  son-in-law’s  affairs.  He  possessed 
neither  experience,  nor  any  knowledge  of  busi- 
ness whatsoever,  though  he  was  not  deficient  in 
education,  nor  in  capacity  to  acquire  both.  This 
pleased  Mrs.  Connell  very  much,  who  set  herself 
to  the  task  of  instructing  him  in  the  principles 
of  commercial  life,  and  in  the  best  methods  of 
transacting  business. 

“ The  first  rules,”  said  she  to  him,  “ for  you 
to  obsarve  is  these : tell  truth : be  sober ; be  punc- 
tual; rise  early,  persavere;  avoid  extravagance; 
keep  your  word;  an’  watch  your  health.  Next: 


184 


IRELAND 


don’t  be  proud;  give  no  offince;  talk  sweetly;  be 
ready  to  oblage,  when  you  can  do  it  widout  in- 
convanience,  but  don’t  put  yourself  or  your  busi- 
ness out  o’  your  ways  to  sarve  any  body. 

“ Thirdly:  keep  an  appearance  of  substance  an’ 
comfort  about  your  place,  but  don’t  go  beyant 
your  manes  in  doin’  it ; when  you  make  a bargain, 
think  what  a correcther  them  you  dale  wid  bears, 
an’  whether  or  not  you  found  them  honest  be- 
fore, if  you  ever  had  business  wid  them. 

“ When  you  buy  a thing,  appear  to  know  your 
own  mind,  an’  don’t  be  hummin’  an’  hawin’,  an’ 
higglin’,  an’  longin’  as  if  your  teeth  wor  watherin’ 
afther  it;  but  be  manly,  downright,  an’  quick; 
they’ll  then  see  that  you  know  your  business,  an’ 
they  won’t  be  keepin’  off  an’  an,  but  will  close 
wid  you  at  wanst. 

“ Never  drink  at  bargain  makin’ ; an’  never  pay 
money  in  a public-house  if  you  can  help  it;  if  you 
must  do  it,  go  into  an  inn,  or  a house  that  you 
know  to  be  dacent. 

“ Never  stay  out  late  in  a fair  or  market;  don’t 
make  a poor  mouth;  on  the  other  hand,  don’t 
boast  of  your  wealth;  keep  no  low  company; 
don’t  be  rubbin’  yourself  aginst  your  betthers,  but 
keep  wid  your  aquils.  File  your  loose  papers  an’ 
accounts;  an’  keep  your  books  up  to  the  day. 
Never  put  off  any  thing  that  can  be  done,  when 
it  ought  to  be  done.  Go  early  to  bed ; but  be  the 
last  up  at  night,  and  the  first  in  the  mornin’,  an’ 
there’s  no  fear  o’  you.” 

Having  now  settled  all  her  children  in  com- 
fort and  independence,  with  each  a prospect  of 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


185 


rising  still  higher  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Connell  felt 
that  the  principal  duties  devolving  upon  her  had 
been  discharged.  It  was  but  reasonable,  she 
thought,  that,  after  the  toil  of  a busy  life,  her  hus- 
band and  herself  should  relax  a little,  and  enjoy 
with  lighter  minds  the  ease  for  which  they  had 
laboured  so  long  and  unremittingly. 

“ Do  you  know  what  I’m  thinldn’  of,  Pether?  ” 
said  she,  one  summer  evening  in  their  farm-yard. 

‘‘Know,  is  it?”  replied  Peter — “some  long- 
headed plan  that  none  of  us  ’ud  ever  think  of, 
but  that  will  stare  us  in  the  face  the  moment 
you  mintion  it.  What  is  it,  you  ould  sprig  o’ 
beauty? ” 

“ Why,  to  get  a snug  jauntin’-car  for  you  an’ 
me.  I’d  like  to  see  you  comfortable  in  your  old 
days,  Pether.  You’re  gettin’  stiff,  a hagur,  an’ 
will  be  good  for  nothin’,  by  an’  by.” 

“ Stiff!  Arrah,  by  this  an’  by — my  reputa- 
tion, I’m  younger  nor  e’er  a one  o’  my  sons  yet, 

you eh?  ” said  Peter,  pausing — “ Faith  then 

I dunna  that.  Upon  my  credit,  I think,  on  sec- 
ond thoughts,  that  a car  ’ud  be  a mighty  com- 
fortable thing  for  me.  Faith  I do,  an’  for  you, 
too,  Ellish.” 

“ The  common  car,”  she  continued,  “ is  slow  an’ 
throublesome,  an’  joults  the  hfe  out  o’  me.” 

“ By  my  reputation,  you’re  not  the  same 
woman  since  you  began  to  use  it,  that  you  wor 
before  at  all.  Why,  it’ll  shorten  your  life.  The 
pillion’s  dacent  enough;  but  the  jauntin’-car  1 — 
faix,  it’s  what  ’ud  make  a fresh  woman  o’  you — 
divil  a lie  in  it.” 


186 


IRELAND 


“ You’re  not  puttin’  in  a word  for  yourself 
now  Pether?  ” 

“ To  be  sure  I am,  an’  for  both  of  us.  I’d 
surely  be  proud  to  see  yourself  an’  myself  sittin’ 
in  our  glory  upon  our  own  jauntin’-car.  Sure 
we  can  afford  it,  an’  ought  to  have  it  too.  Bud- 
an’-ager ! what’s  the  rason  I didn’t  think  of  it  long 
ago?  ” 

“ Maybe  you  did,  acushla;  but  you  forgot  it. 
Wasn’t  that  the  way  wid  you,  Pether?  Tell  the 
thruth.” 

“ Why,  thin,  bad  luck  to  the  lie  in  it,  since 
you  must  know.  About  this  time  twelve  months 
— no,  faix,  I’m  wrong,  it  was  afore  Dan’s  mar- 
riage— I had  thoughts  o’  spakin’  to  you  about  it, 
but  somehow  it  left  my  head.  Upon  my  word, 
I’m  in  airnest,  Ellish.” 

“Well,  avick,  make  your  mind  asy;  I’ll  have 
one  from  Dublin  in  less  nor  a fortnight.  I can 
thin  go  about  of  an  odd  time,  an’  see  how  Dan 
an’  Pether’s  cornin’  an.  It’ll  be  a pleasure  to  me 
to  advise  an’  direct  thim,  sure,  as  far  an’  as  well 
as  I can.  I only  hope  God  will  enable  thim  to 
do  as  much  for  their  childher,  as  he  enabled  us 
to  do  for  them,  glory  be  to  his  name!  ” 

Peter’s  eye  rested  upon  her  as  she  spoke:  a 
slight  shade  passed  over  his  face,  but  it  was  the 
symptom  of  deep  feehng  and  affection,  whose 
current  had  run  smooth  and  unbroken  during  the 
whole  life  they  had  spent  together. 

“ Ellish,”  said  he,  in  a tone  of  voice  that 
strongly  expressed  what  he  felt,  “ you  wor  one 
o’  the  best  wives  that  ever  the  Almighty  gev  to 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


187 


mortual  man.  You  wor,  avourneen — you  wor, 
you  wor!  ’’ 

“ I intind,  too,  to  begin  an’  make  my  sowl  a 
little,”  she  continued;  “we  had  so  much  to  do, 
Pether,  aroon,  that,  indeed,  we  hadn’t  time  to 
think  of  it  all  along;  but  now,  that  everytliing 
else  is  settled,  we  ought  to  think  about  that,  an’ 
make  the  most  of  our  time  while  we  can.” 

“ Upon  my  conscience,  I’ve  strong  notions  my- 
self o’  the  same  thing,”  replied  Peter:  “ An’  I’ll 
back  you  in  that,  as  well  as  in  everything  else. 
Never  fear,  if  we  pull  together,  but  we’ll  bring 
up  the  lost  time.  Faith,  we  will!  Sowl,  if  you 
set  about  it,  let  me  see  them  that  ’ud  prevint  your 
goin’  to  heaven!  ” 

“ Did  Paddy  Donovan  get  the  bay  filly’s  foot 
aised,  Pether?  ” 

“He’s  gone  down  wid  her  to  the  forge:  the 
poor  crathur  was  very  lame  to-day.” 

“That’s  right;  an’  let  Andy  Murtagh  bring 
down  the  sacks  from  Drumdough  early  to-mor- 
row. That  whate  ought  to  go  to  the  market  on 
Thursday,  an’  the  other  stacks  ought  to  be 
thrashed  out  off  hand.” 

“ Well,  well ; so  it  will  be  all  done.  Tare  alive ! 
if  myself  knows  how  you’re  able  to  keep  an  eye 
on  everything.  Come  in,  an’  let  us  have  our 
tayr 

For  a few  months  after  this,  Ellish  was  per- 
fectly in  her  element.  The  jaunting-car  was  pro- 
cured ; and  her  spirits  seemed  to  be  quite  elevated. 
She  paid  regular  visits  to  both  her  sons,  looked 
closely  into  their  manner  of  conducting  business. 


188 


IRELAND 


examined  their  premises,  and  subjected  every 
fixture  and  improvement  made  or  introduced 
without  her  sanction,  to  the  most  rigorous  scru- 
tiny. In  fact,  what,  between  Peter’s  farm,  her 
daughter’s  shop,  and  the  establishments  of  her 
sons,  she  never  found  herself  more  completely 
encumbered  with  business.  She  had  intended 
“ to  make  her  soul,”  but  her  time  was  so  fully 
absorbed  by  the  affairs  of  those  in  whom  she  felt 
so  strong  an  interest,  that  she  really  forgot  the 
spiritual  resolution  in  the  warmth  of  her  secular 
pursuits. 

One  evening,  about  this  time,  a horse  belong- 
ing to  Peter  happened  to  fall  into  a ditch,  from 
which  he  was  extricated  with  much  difficulty  by 
the  labourers.  Ellish,  who  thought  it  necessary 
to  attend,  had  been  standing  for  some  time 
directing  them  how  to  proceed;  her  dress  was 
rather  thin,  and  the  hour,  which  was  about  twi- 
light, chilly,  for  it  was  the  middle  of  autumn. 
Upon  returning  home  she  found  herself  cold, 
and  inclined  to  shiver.  At  first  she  thought  but 
little  of  these  symptoms;  for  having  never  had 
a single  day’s  sickness,  she  was  scarcely  com- 
petent to  know  that  they  were  frequently  the 
forerunners  of  very  dangerous  and  fatal  mal- 
adies. She  complained,  however,  of  slight  ill- 
ness, and  went  to  bed  without  taking  anything 
calculated  to  check  what  she  felt.  Her  suffer- 
ings during  the  night  were  dreadful:  high  fever 
had  set  in  with  a fury  that  threatened  to  sweep 
the  powers  of  life  like  a wreck  before  it.  The 
next  morning  the  family,  on  looking  into  her 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


189 


state  more  closely,  found  it  necessary  to  send 
instantly  for  a physician. 

On  arriving,  he  pronounced  her  to  be  in  a dan- 
gerous pleurisy,  from  which,  in  consequence  of 
her  plethoric  habit,  he  expressed  but  faint  hopes 
of  her  recovery.  This  was  melancholy  intelli- 
gence to  her  sons  and  daughters;  but  to  Peter, 
whose  faithful  wife  she  had  been  for  thirty  years, 
it  was  a dreadful  communication  indeed. 

‘'No  hopes,  Docthor!”  he  exclaimed,  with  a 
bewildered  air:  “did  you  say  no  hopes.  Sir? — 
Oh ! no,  you  didn’t — you  couldn’t  say  that  there’s 
no  hopes!  ” 

“ The  hopes  of  her  recovery,  Mr.  Connell,  are 
but  slender, — if  any.” 

“ Docthor,  I’m  a rich  man,  thanks  be  to  God 

an’  to ” he  hesitated,  cast  back  a rapid  and 

troubled  look  towards  the  bed  whereon  she  lay, 
then  proceeded — “ no  matther,  I’m  a rich  man : 
but  if  you  can  spare  her  to  me.  I’ll  divide  what 
I’m  worth  in  this  world  wid  you:  I will.  Sir;  an’ 
if  that  won’t  do.  I’ll  give  up  my  last  shillin’  to 
save  her,  an’  thin  I’d  beg  my  bit  an’  sup  through 
the  counthry,  only  let  me  have  her  wid  me.” 

“ As  far  as  my  skill  goes,”  said  the  doctor,  “ I 
shall,  of  course,  exert  it  to  save  her;  but  there 
are  some  diseases  which  we  are  almost  always  able 
to  pronounce  fatal  at  first  sight.  This,  I fear,  is 
one  of  them.  Still  I do  not  bid  you  despair — 
there  is,  I trust,  a shadow  of  hope.” 

“ The  blessin’  o’  the  Almighty  be  upon  you, 
Sir,  for  that  word!  The  best  blessing  of  the 
heavenly  Father  rest  upon  you  an’  yours  for  it!  ” 


190 


IRELAND 


“ I shall  return  in  the  course  of  the  day,”  con- 
tinued the  physician;  “ and  as  you  feel  the  dread 
of  her  loss  so  powerfully,  I will  bring  two  other 
medical  gentlemen  of  skill  with  me.” 

“ Heavens  reward  you  for  that.  Sir!  The 
heavens  above  reward  you  an’  them  for  it!  Pay- 
ment!— och,  that  signifies  hut  little;  but  you  an’ 
thim  ’ll  he  well  paid.  Oh,  Docthor,  achora,  thry 
an’  save  her! — Och,  thry  an’  save  her!  ” 

“ Keep  her  easy,”  replied  the  doctor,  “ and  let 
my  directions  be  faithfully  followed.  In  the 
mean  time,  Mr.  Connell,  be  a man,  and  display 
proper  fortitude  under  a dispensation  which  is 
common  to  all  men  in  your  state.” 

To  talk  of  resignation  to  Peter  was  an  abuse 
of  words.  The  poor  man  had  no  more  perception 
of  the  consolations  arising  from  a knowledge 
of  religion  than  a child.  Plis  heart  sank  with- 
in him,  for  the  prop  on  which  his  affections 
had  rested  was  suddenly  struck  down  from  un- 
der them. 

Poor  Ellish  was  in  a dreadful  state.  Her  mal- 
ady seized  her  in  the  very  midst  of  her  worldly- 
mindedness  ; and  the  current  of  her  usual 
thoughts,  when  stopped  by  the  aberrations  of 
intellect  peculiar  to  her  illness,  bubbled  up,  dur- 
ing the  temporary  returns  of  reason,  with  a 
stronger  relish  of  the  world.  It  was  utterly  im- 
possible for  a woman  like  her,  whose  habits  of 
thought,  and  the  tendency  of  whose  affections, 
had  been  all  directed  towards  the  acquisition  of 
wealth,  to  wrench  them  for  ever  and  at  once  from 
the  objects  on  which  they  were  fixed.  This,  at 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


191 


any  time,  would  have  been  to  her  a difficult  vic- 
tory to  achieve;  but  now,  when  stunned  by  the 
stroke  of  disease,  and  confused  by  the  pangs  of 
severe  suffering,  tortured  by  a feverish  pulse  and 
a burning  brain,  to  expect  that  she  could  experi- 
ence the  calm  hopes  of  religion,  or  feel  the  sooth- 
ing power  of  Christian  sorrow,  was  utter  folly. 
’Tis  true,  her  life  had  been  a harmless  one:  her 
example,  as  an  industrious  and  enterprising  mem- 
ber of  society,  was  worthy  of  imitation.  She  was 
an  excellent  mother,  a good  neighbour,  and  an 
admirable  wife;  but  the  duties  arising  out  of 
these  different  relations  of  life,  were  all  made 
subservient  to,  and  mixed  up  with,  her  great  prin- 
ciple of  advancing  herself  in  the  world,  whilst 
that  which  is  to  come  never  engaged  one  moment’s 
serious  consideration. 

When  F ather  Mulcahy  came  to  administer  the 
rites  of  the  church  to  Ellish,  he  found  her  in  a 
state  of  incoherency.  Occasional  gleams  of  rea- 
son broke  out  through  the  cloud  that  obscured 
her  intellect,  but  they  carried  with  them  the  marks 
of  a mind  knit  indissolubly  to  wealth  and  aggran- 
disement. The  same  tenor  of  thought,  and  the 
same  broken  fragments  of  ambitious  speculation, 
floated  in  rapid  confusion  through  the  tempests 
of  dehrium  which  swept  with  awful  darkness  over 
her  spirit. 

“ Mrs.  Connell,”  said  he,  can  you  collect  your- 
self? Strive  to  compose  your  mind,  so  far  as  to 
be  able  to  receive  the  aids  of  religion.” 

“ Oh,  oh ! — ^my  blood’s  boilin’ ! Is  that — is  that 
Father  Mulcahy?” 


192 


IRELAND 


“It  is,  dear:  strive  now  to  keep  your  mind 
calm,  till  you  prepare  yourself  for  judgment.’’ 

“ Keep  up  his  head,  Paddy — keep  up  his  head, 
or  he’ll  be  smothered  undher  the  wather  an’  the 
sludge.  Here,  Mike,  take  this  rope : pull,  man, — 
pull,  or  the  horse  will  be  lost!  Oh,  my  head! — 
I’m  boilin’ — I’m  burnin’ ! ” 

“ Mrs.  Cornell,  let  me  entreat  you  to  remember 
that  you  are  on  the  point  of  death,  and  should 
raise  your  heart  to  God,  for  the  pardon  and  remis- 
sion of  your  sins.” 

“ Oh!  Father  dear,  I neglected  that,  but  I in- 
tinded — I intinded — ^Where’s  Pether? — bring, 
bring — Pether  to  me ! ” 

“ Turn  your  thoughts  to  God  now,  my  dear. 
Are  you  clear  enough  in  your  mind  for  confes- 
sion? ” 

“ I am,  Father;  I am  avourneen.  Come,  come 
here,  Pether!  Pether,  I’m  goin’  to  lave  you, 
asthore  machree ! I could  part  wid  them  all  but 
— but  you!' 

“ Mrs.  Connell,  for  Heaven’s  sake  ” 

“ Is  this — is  this — Father  Mulcahy?  Oh!  I’m 
iU— ill! 

“ It  is,  dear;  it  is.  Compose  yourself  and  con- 
fess your  sins.” 

“ Where’s  Mary?  She’ll  neglect — neglect  to 

lay  in  a stock  o’  linen,  although  I — I Oh, 

Father,  avourneen!  won’t  you  pity  me?  I’m  sick 
— oh,  I’m  very  sick!” 

“ You  are,  dear — you  are,  God  help  you,  very 
sick,  but  you’ll  be  better  soon.  Could  you  con- 
fess, dear? — do  you  think  you  could?  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


193 


“ Oh,  this  pain — this  pain ! — it’s  killin’  me ! — 
Pether — Pether,  a suillish  machree/^  have  you 
des — have  you  desarted  me?  ” 

The  priest,  conjecturing  that  if  Peter  made 
his  appearance,  she  might  feel  soothed,  and  per- 
haps sufficiently  composed  to  confess,  called  him 
in  from  the  next  room. 

“ Here’s  Peter,”  said  the  priest,  presenting 
him  to  her  view — ‘‘  Here’s  Peter,  dear.” 

“ Oh!  what  a load  is  on  me! — this  pain — this 
pain — is  killin’  me — won’t  you  bring  me  Pether? 
Oh,  what  will  I do?  Who’s  there?  ” 

The  mental  pangs  of  poor  Peter  were,  per- 
haps, equal  in  intensity  to  those  which  she  suf- 
fered physically. 

“ Ellish,”  said  he,  in  smothered  sobs — “ Ellish, 
acushla  machree,  sure  I’m  wid  you  here;  here  I’m 
sittin’  on  the  bed  wid  you,  aehora  machree.” 

‘‘  Catch  my  hand,  thin.  Ah,  Pether!  won’t 
you  pity  your  Ellish? — Won’t  you  pity  me — 
won’t  you  pity  me?  Oh!  this  pain — this  pain — 
is  killin’  me!  ” 

“ It  is,  it  is,  my  heart’s  delight — it’s  killin’ 
us  both.  Oh,  Ellish,  Ellish!  I wish  I was  dead 
sooner  nor  see  you  in  this  agony.  I ever  loved 
you! — I ever  an’  always  loved  you,  avourneen 
dheelish ; — but  now  I would  give  my  heart’s  best 
blood,  if  it  ’ud  save  you.  Here’s  Father 
Mulcahy  come.” 

“ About  the  mon — about  the  money — Pether — 
what  do  you  intind — Oh!  my  blood — my  blood’s 
a-fire! — Mother  o’  Heaven! — Oh!  this  pain  is — 
is  takin’  me  from  all — all! — Rise  me  up!  ” 

III— 13 


194 


IRELAND 


“ Here,  my  darlin’ — ^treasure  o’  my  heart — 
here — I’m  puttin’  your  head  upon  my  breast — 
upon  my  breast,  Ellish,  ahagur.  Marciful  Vir- 
gin— Father  dear,”  said  Peter,  bursting  into 
hitter  tears — “her  head’s  like  fire!  Oh!  Ellish, 
Ellish,  Elfish! — but  my  heart’s  brakin’  to  feel 
this!  Have  marcy  on  her,  sweet  God — have 
marcy  on  her!  Bear  witness.  Father  of  heaven 
— bear  witness,  an’  hear  the  vow  of  a brakin’ 
heart.  I here  solemnly  promise,  before  God, 
to  make,  if  I’m  spared  fife  an’  health  to  do  it, 
a Station  on  my  bare  feet  to  Lough  Derg,  if 
it  plases  you,  sweet  Father  o’  pity,  to  spare  her 
to  me  this  day!  Oh!  but  the  hand  o’  God, 
Father  dear,  is  terrible! — feel  her  brow! — Oh! 
but  it’s  terrible!  ” 

“ It  is  terrible,”  said  the  priest;  “ and  terribly 
is  it  laid  upon  her,  poor  woman!  Peter,  do  not 
let  this  scene  be  lost.  Remember  it.” 

“Oh,  Father  dear,  can  I ever  forget  it? — 
can  I ever  forget  seein’  my  darlin’  in  sich 
agony?  ” 

“ Pether,”  said  the  sick  woman,  “ will  you  get 
the  car  ready  for  to-mor — ^to-morrow — till  I look 
at  that  piece  o’  land  that  Dan  bought,  before 
he — he  closes  the  bargain?  ” 

“Father,  jewel!”  said  Peter,  “can’t  you  get 
the  world  banished  out  of  her  heart?  Oh,  I’d 
give  all  I’m  worth  to  see  that  heart  fixed  upon 
God!  I could  bear  to  part  wid  her,  for  she  must 
die  some  time ; but  to  go  wid  this  world’s  thoughts 
an’  timptations  ragin’  strong  in  her  heart — 
mockin’  God,  an’  hope,  an’  religion,  an’  every- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


195 


tiling: — oh!  that  I can’t  hear!  Sweet  Jasus, 
change  her  heart! — Queen  o’  Heaven,  have  pity 
on  her,  an’  save  her!  ” 

The  husband  wept  with  great  sorrow  as  he 
uttered  these  words. 

“ Neither  reasoning  nor  admonition  can  avail 
her,”  replied  the  priest;  “she  is  so  incoherent 
that  no  train  of  thought  is  continued  for  a single 
minute  in  her  mind.  I will,  however,  address 
her  again.  Mrs.  Connell,  wiU  you  make  a strug- 
gle to  pay  attention  to  me  for  a few  minutes? 
Are  you  not  afraid  to  meet  God?  You  are 
about  to  die! — prepare  yourself  for  judgment.” 
“Oh,  Father  dear!  I can’t — I can’t — I am 
af — afraid — Hooh! — hooh! — God!  You  must  do 
somethin’  for — for  me!  I ne-ver  done  anything 
for  myself.” 

“ Glory  be  to  God!  that  she  has  that  much 
sinse,  any  way,”  exclaimed  the  husband. 
“ Father,  ahagur,  I trust  my  vow  was  heard.” 

“ Well,  my  dear — listen  to  me,”  continued  the 
priest — “ can  you  not  make  the  best  confession 
possible?  Could  you  calm  yourself  for  it?  ” 

“ Pether,  avick  machree — Pether,” — 

“ Ellish,  avourneen,  I’m  here! — my  darlin’,  I 
am  your  vick  machree,  an’  ever  was.  Oh, 
Father  1 my  heart’s  brakin’ ! I can’t  bear  to  part 
wid  her.  Father  of  heaven,  pity  us  this  day  of 
throuble!  ” 

“ Be  near  me,  Pether;  stay  wid  me — I’m  very 
lonely.  Is  this  you  keepin’  my  head  up?  ” 

“ It  is,  it  is!  I’ll  never  lave  you  till — till  ” — 


196 


IRELAND 


‘‘Is  the  carman  come  from  Dublin  wid — wid 
the  broad-cloth? 

“Father  of  heaven!  she’s  gone  back  again!” 
exclaimed  the  husband.  “Father,  jewel!  have 
you  no  prayers  that  you’d  read  for  her?  You 
wor  ordained  for  these  things,  an’  cornin’  from 
you^  they’ll  have  more  stringth.  Can  you  do 
nothin’  to  save  my  darlin’?  ” 

“ My  prayers  will  not  be  wanting,”  said  the 
priest:  “but  I am  watching  for  an  interval  of 
sufficient  calmness  to  hear  her  confession;  and  I 
very  much  fear  that  she  will  pass  in  darkness. 
At  all  events,  I will  anoint  her  by  and  by.  In 
the  mean  time,  we  must  persevere  a little  longer ; 
she  may  become  easier,  for  it  often  happens  that 
reason  gets  clear  immediately  before  death.” 

Peter  sobbed  aloud,  and  wiped  away  the  tears 
that  streamed  from  his  cheeks.  At  this  moment 
her  daughter  and  son-in-law  stole  in,  to  ascer- 
tain how  she  was,  and  whether  the  rites  of  the 
church  had  in  any  degree  soothed  or  composed 
her. 

“ Come  in,  Denis,”  said  the  priest  to  his 
nephew,  “ you  may  both  come  in.  Mrs.  Mul- 
cahy,  speak  to  your  mother:  let  us  try  every 
remedy  that  might  possibly  bring  her  to  a sense 
of  her  awful  state.” 

“ Is  she  raving  still?  ” inquired  the  daughter, 
whose  eyes  were  red  with  weeping. 

The  priest  shook  his  head; — “ Ah,  she  is — she 
is!  and  I fear  she  will  scarcely  recover  her  rea- 
son before  the  judgment  of  heaven  opens  upon 
her!  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


197 


“ Oh  thin  may  the  Mother  of  Glory  forbid 
that!”  exclaimed  her  daughter — “anything  at 
all  but  that!  Can  you  do  nothin’  for  her, 
uncle?  ” 

“ I’m  doing  all  I can  for  her,  Mary,”  replied 
the  priest;  “I’m  watching  a calm  moment  to 
get  her  confession,  if  possible.” 

The  sick  woman  had  fallen  into  a momentary 
silence,  during  which  she  caught  the  bed-clothes 
like  a child,  and  felt  them,  and  seemed  to  handle 
their  texture,  but  with  such  an  air  of  vacancy 
as  clearly  manifested  that  no  corresponding  as- 
sociation existed  in  her  mind. 

The  action  was  immediately  understood  by  all 
present.  Her  daughter  again  burst  into  tears; 
and  Peter,  now  almost  choked  with  grief,  press- 
ing the  sick  woman  to  his  heart,  kissed  her  burn- 
ing lips. 

“ Father,  jewel,”  said  the  daughter,  “ there  it 
is,  and  I feared  it — the  sign,  uncle — the  sign! 
— don’t  you  see  her  gropin’  the  clothes?  Oh, 
mother,  darlin’,  darlin’! — are  we  going  to  lose 
you  for  ever?  ” 

“ Oh!  Ellish,  Ellish — won’t  you  spake  one  word 
to  me  afore  you  go?  Won’t  you  take  one  fare- 
well of  me — of  ME,  aroon  asthore,  before  you 
depart  from  us  for  ever!”  exclaimed  her  hus- 
band. 

“ Feehng  the  bed-clothes,”  said  the  priest,  “ is 
not  always  a sign  of  death;  I have  known  many 
to  recover  after  it.” 

“ Husht,”  said  Peter  — “ husht!  — Mary  — 
Mary!  Come  here — hould  your  tongues!  Oh, 


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it's  past — it’s  past! — it’s  all  past,  an’  gone — all 
hope’s  over!  Heavenly  father!  ” 

The  daughter  after  listening  for  a moment, 
in  a paroxysm  of  wild  grief,  clasped  her  mother’s 
recumbent  body  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  her  lips 
with  a vehemence  almost  frantic.  “ You  won’t 
go,  my  darlin’ — is  it  from  your  own  Mary  that 
you’d  go?  Mary,  that  you  loved  best  of  all  your 
childhre ! — Mary,  that  you  always  said,  an’  every 
body  said,  was  your  own  image!  Oh,  you  won’t 
go  without  one  word,  to  say  you  know  her!  ” 

“ For  Heaven’s  sake,”  said  Father  Mulcahy, 
“ what  do  you  mean? — are  you  mad?  ” 

“ Oh!  uncle  dear!  don’t  you  hear? — don’t  you 
hear? — listen,  an’  sure  you  will — all  hope’s  gone 
now — gone — gone!  The  dead  rattle! — listen! 
— the  dead  rattle’s  in  her  throat!  ” — 

The  priest  bent  his  ear  a moment,  and  dis- 
tinctly heard  the  gurgling  noise  produced  by 
the  phlegm,  which  is  termed  with  wild  poetical 
accuracy,  by  the  peasantry — the  “ dead  rattle,” 
or  “ death  rattle,”  because  it  is  the  immediate 
and  certain  forerunner  of  death. 

“True,”  said  the  priest — “too  true;  the  last 
shadow  of  hope  is  gone.  We  must  now  make 
as  much  of  the  time  as  possible.  Leave  the 
room  for  a few  minutes,  till  I anoint  her.  I will 
then  call  you  in.” 

They  accordingly  withdrew,  but  in  about  fif- 
teen or  twenty  minutes  he  once  more  summoned 
them  to  the  bed  of  the  dying  woman. 

“ Come  in,”  said  he,  “ I have  anointed  her 
— come  in,  and  kneel  down  till  we  offer  up  a 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


199 


Rosary  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  under  the  hope 
that  she  may  intercede  with  God  for  her,  and 
cause  her  to  pass  out  of  hfe  happily.  She  was 
calling  for  you,  Peter,  in  your  absence;  you  had 
better  stay  with  her.” 

“ I will,”  said  Peter,  in  a broken  voice,  ‘‘  I’ll 
stay  nowhere  else.” 

“ An’  I’ll  kneel  at  the  bed-side,”  said  the 
daughter.  ‘‘  She  was  the  kind  mother  to  me, 
and  to  us  all;  but  to  me  in  particular.  ’Twas 
with  me  she  took  her  choice  to  live,  when  they 
war  all  striving  for  her.  Oh,”  said  she,  taking 
her  mother’s  hand  between  hers,  and  kneeling 
down  to  kiss  it  “a  Vahr  dheelish!^^  did  we 
ever  think  to  see  you  departing  from  us  this 
way!  snapped  away  without  a minute’s  warning! 
If  it  was  a long  sickness,  that  you’d  be  calm 
and  sinsible  in;  but  to  be  hurried  away  into 
eternity,  and  your  mind  dark!  Oh,  Vahr 
dheelish,  my  heart  is  broke  to  see  you  this  way ! ” 

“Be  calm,”  said  the  priest;  “be  quiet  till  I 
open  the  Rosary.” 

He  then  offered  up  the  usual  prayers  which 
precede  its  repetition,  and  after  having  concluded 
them,  commenced  what  is  properly  called  the 
Rosary  itself,  which  consists  of  fifteen  Decades, 
each  Decade  containing  the  Hail  Mary  repeated 
ten  times,  and  the  Lord’s  Prayer  once.  In  this 
manner  the  Decade  goes  round  from  one  to 
another,  until,  as  we  have  said  above,  it  is  re- 
peated fifteen  times;  or,  in  all  the  Ave  Mafias 
one  hundred  and  sixty-five  times,  without  varia- 
tion. From  the  indistinct  utterance,  elevated 


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voice,  and  rapid  manner  in  which  it  is  pro- 
nounced, it  certainly  has  a wild,  and  is  more 
strongly  impressed  with  the  character  of  a mystic 
rite,  or  incantation,  than  with  any  other  religious 
ceremony  with  which  we  could  compare  it. 

When  the  priest  had  repeated  the  first  part, 
he  paused  for  the  response;  neither  the  husband 
nor  daughter,  however,  could  find  utterance. 

“ Denis,”  said  he,  to  his  nephew,  “ do  you 
take  up  the  next.” 

His  nephew  complied ; and  with  much  difficulty 
Peter  and  his  daughter  were  able  to  join  in  it, 
repeating  here  and  there  a word  or  two,  as  well 
as  their  grief  and  sobbings  would  permit  them. 

The  heart  must  indeed  have  been  an  unfeel- 
ing one,  to  which  a scene  like  this  would  not 
have  been  deeply  touching  and  impressive.  The 
poor  dying  woman  reclined  with  her  head  upon 
her  husband’s  bosom;  the  daughter  knelt  at  the 
bed-side,  with  her  mother’s  hand  pressed  against 
her  bps,  she  herself  convulsed  with  sorrow — ^the 
priest  was  in  the  attitude  of  earnest  supplica- 
tion, having  the  stole  about  his  neck,  his  face 
and  arms  raised  towards  heaven — the  son-in-law 
was  bent  over  a chair,  with  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands.  Nothing  could  exceed  the  deep,  the 
powerful  expression  of  entreaty,  which  marked 
every  tone  and  motion  of  the  parties,  especially 
those  of  the  husband  and  daughter.  They 
poured  an  energy  into  the  few  words  which  they 
found  voice  to  utter,  and  displayed  such  a con- 
centration of  the  faculties  of  the  soul  in  their 
wild  unregulated  attitudes,  and  streaming  up- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


201 


turned  eyes,  as  would  seem  to  imply  that  their 
own  salvation  depended  upon  that  of  the  be- 
loved object  before  them.  Their  words,  too, 
were  accompanied  by  such  expressive  tokens  of 
their  attachment  to  her,  that  the  character  of 
prayer  was  heightened  by  the  force  of  the  af- 
fection which  they  bore  her.  When  Peter,  for 
instance,  could  command  himself  to  utter  a word, 
he  pressed  his  dying  wife  to  his  bosom,  and 
raised  his  eyes  to  heaven  in  a manner  that  would 
have  melted  any  human  heart ; and  the  daughter, 
on  joining  occasionally  in  the  response,  pressed 
her  mother’s  hand  to  her  heart,  and  kissed  it 
with  her  lips,  conscious  that  the  awful  state  of 
her  parent  had  rendered  more  necessary  the 
performance  of  the  two  tenderest  duties  con- 
nected with  a cliild’s  obedience — prayer  and  af- 
fection. 

When  the  son-in-law  had  finished  his  Decade, 
a pause  followed,  for  there  was  none  now  to 
proceed  but  her  husband  or  her  daughter. 

“ Mary,  dear,”  said  the  priest,  “ be  a woman; 
don’t  let  your  love  for  your  mother  prevent 
you  from  performing  a higher  duty.  Go  on 
with  the  prayer — you  see  she  is  passing  fast.” 

“I’ll  try,  uncle,”  she  replied — “I’ll  try;  but 
— but — it’s  hard,  hard,  upon  me.” 

She  commenced,  and  by  an  imcommon  effort 
so  far  subdued  her  grief,  as  to  render  her  words 
intelligible.  Her  eyes,  streaming  with  tears, 
were  fixed  with  a mixture  of  wildness,  sorrow, 
and  devotedness,  upon  the  countenance  of  her 
mother,  until  she  had  completed  her  Decade. 


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Another  pause  ensued.  It  was  now  necessary, 
according  to  the  order  and  form  of  the  Prayer, 
that  Peter  should  commence,  and  offer  up  his 
supplications  for  the  happy  passage  from  life 
to  eternity  of  her  who  had  been  his  inward  idol 
during  a long  period.  Peter  knew  nothing 
about  sentiment,  or  the  philosophy  of  sorrow; 
but  he  loved  his  wife  with  the  undivided  power 
of  a heart  in  which  nature  had  implanted  her 
strongest  affections.  He  knew,  too,  that  his 
wife  had  loved  him  with  a strength  of  heart 
equal  to  his  own.  He  loved  her,  and  she  de- 
served his  love. 

The  pause,  when  the  prayer  had  gone  round 
to  him,  was  long;  those  who  were  present  at 
length  turned  their  eyes  towards  him,  and  the 
priest,  now  deeply  affected,  cleared  his  voice,  and 
simply  said,  “ Peter,”  to  remind  him  that  it  was 
his  duty  to  proceed  with  the  Rosary. 

Peter,  however,  instead  of  uttering  the  prayer, 
burst  out  into  a tide  of  irrepressible  sorrow. — 
“ Oh!”  said  he,  enfolding  her  in  his  arms,  and 
pressing  his  lips  to  hers : “ Elhsh,  ahagur  machree ! 
sure  when  I think  of  all  the  goodness,  an’  kind- 
ness, an’  tendherness  that  you  showed  me — whin 
I think  of  your  smiles  upon  me,  whin  you  wanted 
me  to  do  the  right,  an’  the  innocent  plans  you 
made  out,  to  benefit  me  an’  mine  1 — Oh  where  was 
your  harsh  word,  a villish? — where  was  your 
could  brow,  or  your  bad  tongue?  Nothin’  but 
goodness — nothin’  but  kindness,  an’  love,  an 
wisdom,  ever  flowed  from  these  lips!  An’  now, 
darlin’,  pulse  o’  my  broken  heart!  these  same 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


203 


lips  can’t  spake  to  me — these  eyes  don’t  know 
me — these  hands  don’t  feel  me — nor  your  ears 
doesn’t  hear  me!  ” 

“ Is — is — it  you?  ""  replied  his  wife,  feebly — 
“ is  it — YOU? — come — come  near  me — my  heart 
— my  heart  says  it  misses  you — come  near  me!  ” 

Peter  again  pressed  her  in  an  embrace,  and 
in  doing  so,  unconsciously  received  the  parting 
breath  of  a wife  whose  prudence  and  affection 
had  saved  him  from  poverty,  and,  probably, 
from  folly  or  crime. 

The  priest,  on  turning  round  to  rebuke  Peter 
for  not  proceeding  with  the  prayer,  was  the  ^irs^ 
who  discovered  that  she  had  died;  for  the  grief 
of  her  husband  was  too  violent  to  permit  him 
to  notice  anything  with  much  accuracy. 

“ Peter,”  said  he,  ‘‘  I beg  your  pardon ; let 
me  take  the  trouble  of  supporting  her  for  a 
few  minutes,  after  which  I must  talk  to  you 
seriously — very  seriously.” 

The  firm,  authoritative  tone  in  which  the  priest 
spoke,  together  with  Peter’s  consciousness  that 
he  had  acted  wrongly  by  neglecting  to  join  in 
the  rosary,  induced  him  to  retire  from  the  bed 
with  a rebuked  air.  The  priest  immediately  laid 
back  the  head  of  Mrs.  Connell  on  the  pillow, 
and  composed  the  features  of  her  lifeless  face 
with  his  own  hands.  Until  this  moment  none 
of  them,  except  himself,  knew  that  she  was  dead. 

“ Now,”  continued  he,  “ all  her  cares,  and 
hopes,  and  speculations,  touching  this  world  are 
over — so  is  her  pain;  her  blood  will  soon  be  cold 
enough,  and  her  head  will  ache  no  more.  She  is 


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dead.  Grief  is  therefore  natural;  but  let  it  be 
the  grief  of  a man,  Peter.  Indeed,  it  is  less 
painful  to  look  upon  her  now,  than  when  she 
suffered  such  excessive  agony.  Mrs.  Mulcahy, 
hear  me!  Oh,  it’s  in  vain!  Well,  well,  it  is  but 
natural;  for  it  was  an  unexpected  and  a pain- 
ful death!  ” 

The  cries  of  her  husband  and  daughter  soon 
gave  intimation  to  her  servants  that  her  pangs 
were  over.  From  the  servants  it  immediately 
went  to  the  neighbours,  and  thus  did  the  circle 
widen  until  it  reached  the  furthest  ends  of  the 
parish.  In  a short  time,  also,  the  mournful 
sounds  of  the  church-bell,  in  slow  and  measured 
strokes,  gave  additional  notice  that  a Christian 
soul  had  passed  into  eternity. 

It  is  in  such  scenes  as  these  that  the  Roman 
Catholic  clergy  knit  themselves  so  strongly  into 
the ‘affections  of  the  people.  All  men  are  natu- 
rally disposed  to  feel  the  offices  of  kindness  and 
friendship  more  deeply,  when  tendered  at  the 
bed  of  death  or  of  sickness,  than  under  any 
other  circumstances.  Both  the  sick-bed  and  the 
house  of  death  are  necessarily  the  sphere  of  a 
priest’s  duty,  and  to  render  them  that  justice 
which  we  will  ever  render,  when  and  whereso- 
ever it  may  be  due,  we  freely  grant  that  many 
shining,  nay,  noble  instances  of  Christian  virtue 
are  displayed  by  them  on  such  occasions. 

When  the  violence  of  grief  produced  by 
Ellish’s  death  had  subsided,  the  priest,  after 
giving  them  suitable  exhortations  to  bear  the 
affliction  which  had  just  befallen  them  with 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


205 


patience,  told  Peter,  that  as  God,  through  the 
great  industry  and  persevering  exertions  of  her 
who  had  then  departed  to  another  world,  had 
blessed  him  abundantly  with  wealth  and  sub- 
stance, it  was,  considering  the  little  time  which 
had  been  allowed  her  to  repent  in  a satisfactory 
manner  for  her  transgressions,  his  bounden  and 
solemn  duty  to  set  aside  a suitable  portion  of 
that  wealth  for  the  delivery  of  her  soul  from 
purgatory,  where,  he  trusted,  in  the  mercy  of 
God,  it  was  permitted  to  remain. 

“ Indeed,  your  Reverence,”  replied  Peter,  “ it 
wasn’t  necessary  to  mintion  it,  considherin’  the 
way  she  was  cut  off  from  among  us,  widout  even 
time  to  confess.” 

“ But  blessed  be  God,”  said  the  daughter,  “ she 
received  the  ointment  at  any  rate,  and  that  of 
itself  would  get  her  to  purgatory.” 

And  I can  answer  for  her,”  said  Peter,  “ that 
she  intended,  as  soon  as  she’d  get  everything 
properly  settled  for  the  childhre,  to  make  her 
sowl.” 

“ Ah!  good  intentions,”  said  the  priest,  “ wont 
do.  I,  however,  have  forewarned  you  of  your 
duty,  and  must  now  leave  the  guilt  or  the  merit 
of  relieving  her  departed  spirit,  upon  you  and  the 
other  members  of  her  family,  who  are  all  bound  to 
leave  nothing  undone  that  may  bring  her  from 
pain  and  fire,  to  peace  and  happiness.” 

“ Och ! och ! asthore,  asthore  1 you’re  lyin’  there 
— an’,  oh,  Ellish,  avourneen,  could  you  think  that 
I — I — would  spare  money — trash — to  bring  you 
to  glory  wid  the  angels  o’  heaven!  No,  no. 


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IRELAND 


F ather  dear.  It’s  good,  an’  kind  an’  thoughtful 
of  you  to  put  it  into  my  head;  but  I didn’t  in- 
tind  to  neglect  or  forget  it.  Oh,  how  will  I live 
wantin’  her.  Father?  When  I rise  in  the 
mornin’,  a villish,  where’ll  be  your  smile  and 
your  voice?  We  won’t  hear  your  step,  nor  see 
you  as  we  used  to  do,  movin’  pleasantly  about 
the  place.  No — you’re  gone,  avourneen — ^gone 
— an  we’ll  see  you  and  hear  you  no  more ! ” 

His  grief  was  once  more  about  to  burst  forth, 
but  the  priest  led  him  out  of  the  room,  kindly 
chid  him  for  the  weakness  of  his  immoderate 
sorrow,  and  after  making  arrangements  about 
the  celebration  of  mass  for  the  dead,  pressed  his 
hand,  and  bade  the  family  farewell. 

The  death  of  Ellish  excited  considerable  sur- 
prise, and  much  conversation  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Every  point  of  her  character  was  dis- 
cussed freely,  and  the  comparisons  instituted 
between  her  and  Peter  were  any  thing  but  flat- 
tering to  the  intellect  of  her  husband. 

“ An’  so  Ellish  is  whipped  off,  Larry,”  said  a 
neighbour  to  one  of  Peter’s  labouring  men. 
“ Faix,  an’  the  best  feather  in  their  wing  is 
gone.” 

“ Ay,  sure  enough,  Risthard,  you  may  say  that. 
It  was  her  cleverness  made  them  what  they  are. 
She  was  the  best  manager  in  the  three  king- 
doms.” 

“ Ah,  she  was  the  woman  could  make  a bar- 
gain. I only  hope  she  hasn’t  brought  the  luck 
o’  the  family  away  wid  her!  ” 

“Why,  man  alive,  she  made  the  sons  and 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


207 


daughters  as  clever  as  herself — put  them  up  to 
everything.  Indeed,  it’s  quare  to  think  of  how 
that  one  woman  brought  them  an,  an’  ris  them 
to  what  they  are!  ” 

‘‘  They  shouldn’t  forget  themselves  as  they’re 
doin’,  thin;  for  betune  you  an’  me,  they’re  as 
proud  as  Turks,  an’  God  he  sees  it  ill  becomes 
them — sits  very  badly  on  them  itself,  when  every- 
body knows  that  their  father  an’  mother  begun 
the  world  wid  a bottle  of  private  whiskey  an’ 
half  a pound  of  smuggled  tobaccy.” 

“ Poor  Pether  will  break  his  heart,  any  way. 
Oh,  man,  but  she  was  the  good  wife.  I’m  livin’ 
wid  them  goin’  an  seven  year,  an’  never  hard 
a cross  word  from  the  one  to  the  other.  It’s 
she  that  had  the  sweet  tongue  all  out,  an’  did 
manage  him;  but,  afther  all,  he  was  worth  the 
full  o’  the  Royal  George  of  her.  Many  a time 
when  some  poor  craythur  ’ud  come  to  ax  whiskey 
on  score  to  put  over  some  o’  their  friends,  or 
for  a weddin’,  or  a christenin’,  maybe,  an’  when 
the  wife  ’ud  refuse  it,  Pether  ’ud  send  what 
whiskey  they  wanted  afther  them,  widout  lettin’ 
her  know  anything  about  it.  An’,  indeed,  he 
never  lost  anything  by  that;  for  if  they  wor  to 
sell  their  cow,  he  should  be  ped,  in  regard  of 
the  kindly  way  he  gave  it  to  them.” 

“ Well,  we’ll  see  how  they’ll  manage  now  that 
she’s  gone;  but  Pether  an’  the  youngest  daugh- 
ther,  Mary,  is  to  be  pitied.” 

“ The  sarra  much;  barrin’  that  they’ll  miss  her 
at  first  from  about  the  place.  You  see  she  has 
left  them  above  the  world,  an’  full  of  it. 


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IRELAND 


Wealth  and  substance  enough  may  they  thank 
her  for;  and  that’s  very  good  comfort  for  sor- 
sow,  Risthard.” 

“ Faith,  sure  enough,  Larry.  There’s  no  lie 
in  that,  any  way!  ” 

“Awouh!  Lie!  I have  you  about  it.” 

Such  was  the  view  which  had  been  taken  of 
their  respective  characters  through  hfe.  Yet 
notwithstanding  that  the  hearts  of  her  acquaint- 
ances never  warmed  to  her — to  use  a significant 
expression  current  among  the  peasantry — as  they 
did  to  Peter,  still  she  was  respected  almost  in- 
voluntarily for  the  indefatigable  perseverance 
with  which  she  pushed  forward  her  own  interests 
through  life.  Her  funeral  was  accordingly  a 
large  one ; and  the  conversation  which  took  place 
at  it,  turning,  as  it  necessarily  did,  upon  her 
extraordinary  talents  and  industry,  was  highly 
to  the  credit  of  her  memory  and  virtues.  In- 
deed, the  attendance  of  many  respectable  persons 
of  all  creeds  and  opinions,  gave  ample  proof 
that  the  quahties  she  possessed  had  secured  for 
her  general  respect  and  admiration. 

Poor  Peter,  who  was  an  object  of  great  com- 
passion, felt  himself  completely  crushed  by  the 
death  of  his  faithful  partner.  The  reader 
knows  that  he  had  hitherto  been  a sober,  and, 
owing  to  Ellish’s  prudent  control,  an  industrious 
man.  To  thought  or  reflection  he  was  not,  how- 
ever, accustomed;  he  had,  besides,  never  re- 
ceived any  education;  if  his  morals  were  correct, 
it  was  because  a hfe  of  active  employment  had 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


209 


kept  him  engaged  in  pursuits  which  repressed 
immorality,  and  separated  him  from  those  whose 
society  and  influence  might  have  been  prejudi- 
cial to  him.  He  had  scarcely  known  calamity,  and 
when  it  occurred  he  was  prepared  for  it  neither 
by  experience,  nor  a correct  view  of  moral  duty. 
On  the  morning  of  his  wife’s  funeral,  such  was 
his  utter  prostration  both  of  mind  and  body,  that 
even  his  own  sons,  in  order  to  resist  the  singular 
state  of  collapse  into  which  he  had  sunk,  urged 
him  to  take  some  spirits.  He  was  completely 
passive  in  their  hands,  and  complied.  This  had 
the  desired  effect,  and  he  found  himself  able 
to  attend  the  funeral.  When  the  friends  of 
Ellish  assembled,  after  the  interment,  as  is  usual, 
to  drink  and  talk  together,  Peter,  who  could 
scarcely  join  in  the  conversation,  swallowed  glass 
after  glass  of  punch  with  great  rapidity.  In 
the  mean  time,  the  talk  became  louder  and  more 
animated;  the  punch,  of  course,  began  to  work, 
and  as  they  sat  long,  it  was  curious  to  observe 
the  singular  blending  of  mirth  and  sorrow,  sing- 
ing and  weeping,  laughter  and  tears,  which 
characterised  this  remarkable  scene.  Peter,  after 
about  two  hours’  hard  drinking,  was  not  an  ex- 
ception to  the  influence  of  this  trait  of  national 
manners.  His  heart  having  been  deeply  agi- 
tated, was  the  more  easily  brought  under  the 
effects  of  contending  emotions.  He  was  natu- 
rally mirthful,  and  when  intoxication  had  stimu- 
lated the  current  of  his  wonted  humour,  the  in- 

• fluence  of  this  and  his  recent  sorrow,  produced 
III— 14 


210 


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such  an  anomalous  commixture  of  fun  and  grief 
as  could  seldom,  out  of  Ireland,  be  found  check- 
ering the  mind  of  one  individual. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  this  extraordinary  din 
that  his  voice  was  heard  commanding  silence  in 
its  loudest  and  best-humoured  key : 

“ Hould  yer  tongues,”  said  he;  “ bad  win  to 
yees,  don’t  you  hear  me  wantin’  to  sing ! Whist 
wid  yees.  Hem — och — Rise  up  ’ — ^Why,  thin, 
Phil  Callaghan,  you  might  thrate  me  wid  more 
dacency,  if  you  had  gumption  in  you;  I’m  sure 
no  one  has  a betther  right  to  sing  first  in  this 
company  nor  myself;  an’  what’s  more,  I will 
sing  first.  Hould  your  tongues!  Hem!” 

He  accordingly  commenced  a popular  song, 
the  air  of  which,  though  simple,  was  touchingly 
mournful. 

**  Och,  rise  up,  Willy  Reilly,  an*  come  alongst  wid  me, 

I’m  goin’  for  to  go  wid  you,  and  lave  this  coun-ter-ee; 

I’m  goin’  to  lave  my  father,  his  castles  and  free  lands — 
An’  away  wint  Willy  Reilly,  an’  his  own  Colleen  Bawn. 

“ Och,  they  wint  o’er  hills  an’  mountains,  and  valleys  that 
was  fair. 

An’  fled  before  her  father,  as  you  may  shortly  hear; 

Her  father  followed  afther  wid  a well-chosen  armed  band, 
Och,  an’  taken  was  poor  Reilly,  an’  his  own  Collen  Bawn.” 

The  simple  pathos  of  the  tune,  the  affection 
implied  by  the  words,  and  probably  the  misfor- 
tune of  Willy  Reilly,  all  overcame  him.  He 
finished  the  second  verse  with  difficulty,  and  on 
attempting  to  commence  a third  he  burst  into 
tears. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


211 


“Colleen  bawn!  (fair,  or  fair-haired,  girl)  — 
Colleen  bawn!”  he  exclaimed:  “she’s  lyin’  low 
that  was  my  colleen  bawn!  Oh,  will  ye  hould 
your  tongues,  an’  let  me  think  of  what  has  ha])- 
pened  me?  She’s  gone:  Mary,  avourneen,  isn’t 
she  gone  from  us?  I’m  alone,  an’  I’ll  be  always 
lonely.  Who  have  I now  to  comfort  me?  I 
know  I have  good  childhre,  neighbours ; but 
none  o’  them,  all  of  them,  if  they  wor  ten  times 
as  many,  isn’t  aqual  to  her  that’s  in  the  grave. 
Her  hands  won’t  be  about  me — there  was  tin- 
dherness  in  their  very  touch.  An’,  of  a Sunday 
mornin’,  how  she’d  tie  an  my  handkerchy,  for 
I never  could  rightly  tie  it  an  myself,  the  knot 
was  ever  an’  always  too  many  for  me;  but,  och, 
och,  she’d  tie  it  an  so  snug  an’  purty  wid  her 
own  hands,  that  I didn’t  look  the  same  man! 
The  same  song  was  her  favourite.  Here’s  your 
healths;  an’  sure  it’s  the  first  time  ever  we  wor 
together  that  she  wasn’t  wid  us : but  now,  avillish, 
you’re  voice  is  gone- — ^you’re  silent  an’  lonely  in 
the  grave;  an’  why  shouldn’t  I be  sarry  for  the 
wife  o’  my  heart  that  never  angered  me?  Why 
shouldn’t  I?  Ay,  JNIary,  asthore,  machree,  good 
right  you  have  to  cry  afther  her;  she  was  the 
kind  mother  to  you ; her  heart  was  fixed  in  you ; 
there’s  her  fatures  on  your  face;  her  very  eyes, 
an’  fair  hair,  too,  an’  I’ll  love  you,  achora,  ten 
times  more  nor  ever,  for  her  sake.  Another 
favourite  song  of  hers,  God  rest  her,  was  ‘ Brian 
O’Lynn.’  Throth  an’  I’ll  sing  it,  so  I will,  for 
if  she  was  livin’  she’d  like  it. 


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* Och,  Brian  O’Lynn,  he  had  milk  an’  male, 
A two-lugged  porringer  wantin’  a tail/ 


Och,  my  head’s  through  other!  The  sarra  one 
o’  me  I bleeve,  hut’s  out  o’  the  words,  or,  as 
they  say,  there’s  a hole  in  the  ballad.  Send 
round  the  punch  will  ye?  By  the  hole  o’  my 
coat,  Parra  Gastha,  I’ll  whale  you  widin  an  inch 
of  3^our  life,  if  you  don’t  dhrink.  Send  round 
the  punch,  Dan;  an’  give  us  a song,  Parra 
Gastha.  Arrah,  Paddy,  do  you  remimber — ha, 
ha,  ha — upon  my  credit.  I’ll  never  forget  it,  the 
fun  we  had  catchin’  Father  Soolaghan’s  horse, 
the  day  he  gave  his  shirt  to  the  sick  man  in 
the  ditch.  The  Lord  rest  his  sowl  in  glory — 
ha,  ha,  ha — I’ll  never  forget  it.  Paddy,  the 
song,  you  thief?  ” 

“No,  but  tell  them  about  that,  Misther  Con- 
nell.” 

“ Throth,  an’  I will;  but  don’t  be  Mistherin 
me.  Faith,  this  is  the  height  o’  good  punch. 
You  see — ha,  ha,  ha!  You  see,  it  was  one  hard 
summer  afore  I was  marrid  to  Ellish — ^mavour- 
neen,  that  you  wor,  asthore!  Och,  och,  are  we 
parted  at  last?  Upon  my  sowl,  my  heart’s 
breakin’ — ^breakin’,  (weeps)  ; an’  no  wondher! 
But  as  I was  sayin’ — all  your  healths!  faith,  it 
is  tip-top  punch  that — the  poor  man  fell  sick  of 
a faver,  an’  sure  enough,  when  it  was  known 
what  ailed  him,  the  neighbours  built  a little  shed 
on  the  roadside  for  him,  in  regard  that  every 
one  was  afeard  to  let  him  into  their  place.  How- 
somever — ha,  ha,  ha — Father  Soolaghan  was  one 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


213 


day  ridin’  past  upon  his  horse,  an’  seein’  the 
crathur  lyin’  undher  the  shed,  on  a wishp  o’ 
sthraw,  he  pulls  bridle,  an’  puts  the  spake  an 
the  poor  sthranger.  So,  begad,  it  came  out, 
that  the  neighbours  were  very  kind  to  him,  an’ 
used  to  hand  over  whatsomever  they  thought  best 
for  him  from  the  back  o’  the  ditch,  as  well  as 
they  could. 

“ ‘ poor  fellow,’  said  the  priest,  ‘ you’re 
badly  off  for  linen.’ 

‘‘  ‘ Thrue  for  you.  Sir,’  said  the  sick  man,  ‘ I 
never  longed  for  anything  so  much  in  my  life, 
as  I do  for  a clane  shirt  an’  a glass  o’  whiskey.’ 

“ ‘ The  devil  a glass  o’  whiskey  I have  about 
me,  but  you  shall  have  the  clane  shirt,  you  poor 
compassionate  crathur,’  said  the  priest,  stretchin’ 
his  neck  up  an’  down,  to  make  sure  there  was 
no  one  cornin’  on  the  road — ha,  ha,  ha! 

“Well  an’  good — ‘I  have  three  shirts,’  says 
his  Reverence,  ‘ but  I have  only  one  o’  them  an 
me,  an’  that  you  shall  have.’ 

“ So  the  priest  peels  himself  on  the  spot,  an’ 
lays  his  black  coat  and  waistcoat  afore  him 
acrass  the  saddle,  thin  takin’  off  his  shirt,  he 
threwn  it  acrass  the  ditch  to  the  sick  man. 
Whether  it  was  the  white  shirt,  or  the  black 
coat  danglin’  about  the  horse’s  neck,  the  divil 
a one  o’  myself  can  say,  but  any  way,  the  baste 
tuck  fright,  an’  made  off  wid  Father  Soolaghan, 
in  the  state  I’m  telKn’  yez,  upon  his  back — ha, 
ha,  ha! 

“ Parra  Gastha,  here,  an’  I war  goin’  up  at 
the  time  to  do  a little  in  the  distillin’  way  for 


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Tom  Duggan  of  Aidinasamlagh,  an’  seen  what 
was  goin’  an.  So  off  we  set,  an’  we  splittin’ 
our  sides  laughin’ — ha,  ha,  ha — at  the  figure  the 
priest  cut.  However,  we  could  do  no  good,  an’ 
he  never  could  pull  up  the  horse,  till  he  came 
full  flight  to  his  own  house,  opposite  the  pound 
there  below,  and  the  whole  town  in  convulsions 
when  they  seen  him.  We  gather  up  his  clothes, 
an’  brought  them  home  to  him,  an’  a good  piece 
o’  fun  we  had  wid  him,  for  he  loved  the  joke 
as  well  as  any  man.  Well,  he  was  the  good 
an’  charitable  man,  the  same  Father  Soolaghan; 
but  so  simple  that  he  got  himself  into  fifty 
scrapes,  God  rest  him ! Och,  och,  she’s  lyin'  low 
that  often  laughed  at  that,  an’  I’m  here — ay,  I 
have  no  one,  no  one  that  ’ud  show  me  sich  a 
warm  heart  as  she  would,  {weeps).  However, 
God’s  will  be  done.  I’ll  sing  yez  a song  she 
liked : — 

Och,  Brian  O’Lynn,  he  had  milk  an’  male, 

A two-lugged  porringer  wantin’  a tail.’ 

Musha,  I’m  out  agin — ha,  ha,  ha!  Why,  I 
b’lieve  there’s  pishthrogues  an  me,  or  I’d  remem- 
ber it.  Rud-an-age,  dhrink  all  of  ye.  Lie  in 
to  the  liquor,  I say ; don’t  spare  it.  Here,  Mike, 
send  us  up  another  gallon.  Faith,  we’ll  make 
a night  of  it. 

‘ Och,  three  maidens  a milkin’  did  go 
An’  three  maidens  a milkin’  did  go; 

An’  the  winds  they  blew  high. 

An’  the  winds  they  blew  low. 

An’  they  dashed  their  milkin’  pails  to  an’  fro.’ 

All  your  healths,  childhre!  Neighbours,  all  your 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


215 


healths!  don’t  spare  what’s  before  ye.  It’s  long 
since  I tuck  a jorum  myself  an — come,  I say, 
plase  God,  we’ll  often  meet  this  way,  so  we  will. 
Faith,  I’ll  take  a sup  from  this  forrid,  wid  a 
blessin’.  Dhrink,  I say,  dhrink!  ” 

By  the  time  he  had  arrived  at  this  pitch,  he 
was  able  to  engross  no  great  portion  either  of 
the  conversation  or  attention.  Almost  every  one 
present  had  his  songs,  his  sorrows,  his  laughter, 
or  his  anecdotes,  as  well  as  himself.  Every 
voice  was  loud;  and  every  tongue  busy.  Intri- 
cate and  entangled  was  the  talk,  which,  on  the 
present  occasion,  presented  a union  of  all  the 
extremes  which  the  lights  and  shadows  of  the 
Irish  character  alone  could  exhibit  under  such 
a calamity  as  that  which  brought  the  friends  of 
the  deceased  together. 

Peter  literally  fulfilled  his  promise  of  taking 
a jorum  in  future.  He  was  now  his  own  mas- 
ter; and  as  he  felt  the  loss  of  his  wife  deeply, 
he  unhappily  had  recourse  to  the  bottle,  to  bury 
the  recollection  of  a woman,  whose  death  left  a 
chasm  in  his  heart,  which  he  thought  nothing 
but  the  whiskey  could  fill  up. 

His  transition  from  a life  of  perfect  sobriety 
to  one  of  habitual,  nay,  of  daily  intoxication,  w^as 
immediate.  He  could  not  bear  to  be  sober;  and 
his  extraordinary  bursts  of  affliction,  even  in  his 
cups,  were  often  calculated  to  draw  tears  from 
the  eyes  of  those  who  witnessed  them.  He  usu- 
ally went  out  in  the  morning  with  a flask  of 
whiskey  in  his  pocket,  and  sat  dowm  to  weep  be- 
hind a ditch — ^where,  however,  after  having 


216 


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emptied  his  flask,  he  might  be  heard  at  a great 
distance,  singing  the  songs  which  Ellish  in  her 
life-time  was  accustomed  to  love.  In  fact,  he 
was  generally  pitied;  his  simplicity  of  character, 
and  his  benevolence  of  heart,  which  was  now 
exercised  without  fear  of  responsibility,  made 
him  more  a favourite  than  he  ever  had  been. 
His  former  habits  of  industry  were  thrown  aside ; 
as  he  said  himself,  he  hadn’t  heart  to  work;  his 
farms  were  neglected,  and  but  for  his  son-in- 
law,  would  have  gone  to  ruin.  Peter  himself 
was  sensible  of  this. 

“ Take  them,”  said  he,  “ into  your  own  hands, 
Denis;  for  me,  I’m  not  able  to  do  anything  more 
at  them;  she  that  kep  me  up  is  gone,  an’  I’m 
broken  down.  Take  them — take  them  into  your 
own  hands.  Give  me  my  bed,  bit,  an’  sup,  an’ 
that’s  all  I want.” 

Six  months  produced  an  incredible  change  in 
his  appearance.  Intemperance,  whilst  it  shat- 
tered his  strong  frame,  kept  him  in  frequent 
exuberance  of  spirits ; but  the  secret  grief  preyed 
on  him  within.  Artificial  excitement  kills,  but 
it  never  cures;  and  Peter,  in  the  midst  of  his 
mirth  and  jollity,  was  wasting  away  into  a 
shadow.  His  children,  seeing  him  go  down  the 
hill  of  life  so  rapidly,  consulted  among  each  other 
on  the  best  means  of  winning  him  back  to 
sobriety.  This  was  a difficult  task,  for  his  powers 
of  bearing  liquor  were  prodigious.  He  has 
often  been  known  to  drink  so  many  as  twenty- 
five,  and  sometimes  thirty  tumblers  of  punch, 
without  being  taken  off  his  legs,  or  rendered  in- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


217 


capable  of  walking  about.  His  friends,  on  con- 
sidering who  was  most  likely  to  recall  him  to 
a more  becoming  life,  resolved  to  apply  to  his 
landlord — the  gentleman  whom  we  have  already 
introduced  to  our  readers.  He  entered  warmly 
into  their  plan,  and  it  was  settled,  that  Peter 
should  be  sent  for,  and  induced,  if  possible,  to 
take  an  oath  against  liquor.  Early  the  follow- 
ing day  a liveried  servant  came  down  to  inform 
him  that  his  master  wished  to  speak  with  him. 

“To  be  sure,”  said  Peter;  “ divil  resave  the 
man  in  all  Europe  I’d  do  more  for  than  the  same 
gintleman,  if  it  was  only  on  account  of  the  re- 
gard he  had  for  her  that’s  gone.  Come,  I’ll  go 
wid  you  in  a minute.” 

He  accordingly  returned  with  the  flask  in  his 
hand,  saying,  “ I never  thravel  widout  a pocket- 
pistol,  John.  The  times,  you  see,  is  not  overly 
safe,  an’  the  best  way  is  to  be  prepared! — ha, 
ha,  ha!  Och,  och!  It  houlds  three  half -pints.” 
“ I think,”  observed  the  servant,  “ you  had 
better  not  taste  that  till  after  your  return.” 
“Come  away  man,”  said  Peter;  “ we’ll  talk 
upon  it  as  we  go  along:  I couldn’t  do  readily 

widout  it.  You  hard  that  I lost  Ellish?  ” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  servant,  “ and  I was  very 
sorry  to  hear  it.” 

“ Did  you  attind  the  berrin?  ” 

“ No,  but  my  master  did,”  replied  the  man; 
“ for,  indeed,  his  respect  for  your  wife  was  very 
great,  Mr.  Connell.” 

This  was  before  ten  o’clock  in  the  forenoon, 
and  about  one  in  the  afternoon  a stout  country- 


218 


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man  was  seen  approaching  the  gentleman’s 
house,  with  another  man  bent  round  his  neck, 
where  he  hung  precisely  as  a calf  hangs  round 
the  shoulders  of  a butcher,  when  he  is  carrying 
it  to  his  stall. 

“ Good  Heavens!  ” said  the  owner  of  the  man- 
sion to  his  lady,  “ what  has  happened  to  John 
Smith,  my  dear?  Is  he  dead?  ” 

“ Dead!  ” said  his  lady,  going  in  much  alarm 
to  the  drawing-room  window:  I protest  I fear 

so,  Frank.  He  is  evidently  dead!  For  God’s 
sake  go  down  and  see  what  has  befallen  him.” 

Her  husband  went  hastily  to  the  hall-door, 
where  he  met  Peter  with  his  burden. 

“ In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what  has  happened, 
Connell? — ^what  is  the  matter  with  John?  Is  he 
living  or  dead?  ” 

“ First,  plase  your  honour,  as  I have  him  on 
my  shouldhers,  will  you  tell  me  where  his  bed 
is?”  replied  Peter.  “I  may  as  well  lave  him 
snug,  as  my  hand’s  in,  poor  fellow.  The  devil’s 
bad  head  he  has,  your  honour.  Faith,  it’s  a 
burnin’  shame,  so  it  is  an’  nothin’  else — to  be 
able  to  bear  so  little!  ” 

The  lady,  children,  and  servants,  were  now  all 
assembled  about  the  dead  footman,  who  hung, 
in  the  mean  time,  very  quietly  round  Peter’s 
neck. 

“ Gracious  Heaven!  Connell,  is  the  man 
dead?  ” she  inquired. 

“ Faith,  thin,  he  is.  Ma’am, — for  a while  any 
how;  but,  upon  my  credit,  it’s  a burnin’  shame, 
so  it  is,” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


219 


“ The  man  is  drunk,  my  dear,”  said  her  hus- 
band— “ he’s  only  drunk.” 

“ a burnin’  shame,  so  it  is — to  be  able  to 

bear  no  more  nor  about  six  glasses,  an’  the  whiskey 
good,  too.  Will  you  ordher  one  o’  thim  to  show 
me  his  bed.  Ma’am,  if  you  plase,”  continued 
Peter,  “while  he’s  an  me?  It’ll  save  throuble.” 
“ Connell  is  right,”  observed  his  landlord. — 
“ Gallagher,  show  him  John’s  bed-room.” 

Peter  accordingly  followed  another  servant, 
who  pointed  out  his  bed,  and  assisted  to  place 
the  vanquished  footman  in  a somewhat  easier 
position  than  that  in  which  Peter  had  carried 
him. 

“ ConneU,”  said  his  landlord,  when  he  returned, 
“ how  did  this  happen?  ” 

“ Faith,  thin,  it’s  a burnin’  shame,”  said  Con- 
nell, “ to  be  able  only  to  bear  ” 

“ But  how  did  it  happen?  for  he  has  been 
hitherto  a perfectly  sober  man.” 

“ Faix,  plase  your  honour,  asy  enough,”  re- 
plied Peter;  “he  begun  to  lecthur  me  about 
dhrinkin’,  so,  says  I,  ‘ Come  an’  sit  down  behind 
the  hedge  here,  an’  we’ll  talk  it  over  between  us ; ’ 
so  we  went  in,  the  two  of  us,  a-back  o’  the  ditch 
— an’  he  began  to  advise  me  agin  dhrink,  an’ 
I began  to  tell  him  about  her  that’s  gone.  Sir. 
Well,  well!  och,  och!  no  matther! — So,  Sir,  one 
story  an’  one  pull  from  the  bottle,  brought  on 
another,  for  divil  a glass  we  had  at  all.  Sir. 
Faix,  he’s  a tindher-hearted  boy,  anyhow;  for  as 
myself  begun  to  let  the  tears  down,  whin  the 
bottle  was  near  out,  divil  resave  the  morsel  of 


220 


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him  but  cried  afther  poor  Elhsh,  as  if  she  had 
been  his  mother.  Faix,  he  did!  An’  it  won’t 
be  the  last  sup  we’ll  have  together,  plase  good- 
ness! But  the  best  of  it  was,  Sir,  that  the 
dhrunker  he  got,  he  abused  me  the  more  for 
dhrinkin’.  Oh,  thin,  but  he’s  the  pious  boy  whin 
he  gets  a sup  in  his  head!  Faix,  it’s  a pity  ever 
he’d  be  sober,  he  talks  so  much  scripthur  an’  de- 
votion in  his  liquor!  ” 

“ Connell,”  said  the  landlord,  “ I am  exceed- 
ingly sorry  to  hear  that  you  have  taken  so  openly 
and  inveterately  to  drink  as  you  have  done,  ever 
since  the  death  of  your  admirable  wife.  This, 
in  fact,  was  what  occasioned  me  to  send  for  you. 
Come  into  the  parlour.  Don’t  go,  my  dear ; per- 
haps your  influence  may  also  be  necessary.  Gal- 
lagher, look  to  Smith,  and  see  that  every  atten- 
tion is  paid  him,  until  he  recovers  the  effects  of 
his  intoxication.” 

He  then  entered  the  parlour,  where  the  fol- 
lowing dialogue  took  place  between  him  and 
Peter : — 

“ Connell,  I am  really  grieved  to  hear  that  you 
have  become  latterly  so  incorrigible  a drinker;  I 
sent  for  you  to-day,  with  the  hope  of  being  able 
to  induce  you  to  give  it  up.” 

“ Faix,  your  honour,  it’s  jist  what  I’d  expect 
from  your  father’s  son — ^kindness,  an’  dacency, 
an’  devotion,  wor  always  among  yez.  Divil  re- 
save the  family  in  all  Europe  I’d  do  so  much  for 
as  the  same  family.” 

The  gentleman  and  lady  looked  at  each  other, 
and  smiled.  They  knew  that  Peter’s  blarney  was 


brrBilS  aiorriBiT 

.K  A\  .51  .Z  \)»‘l^u'J»'\  a iuo'\\  l)i'jMbo'<<\a5l 


Tramore  Strand 

Reproduced  from  a Paintinu  by  Francis  ,S.  Walker,  R.  H.  A, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


221 


no  omen  of  their  success  in  the  laudable  design 
they  contemplated. 

“ I thank  you,  Peter,  for  your  good  opinion ; 
but  in  the  meantime  allow  me  to  ask,  what  can 
you  propose  to  yourself  by  drinking  so  inces- 
santly as  you  do?  ” 

“ What  do  I propose  to  myself  by  dhrinkin’, 
is  it?  Why  thin  to  banish  grief,  your  honour. 
Surely  you’ll  allow  that  no  man  has  reason  to 
complain  who’s  able  to  banish  the  thief  for  two 
shillins  a-day.  I reckon  the  whiskey  at  first  cost, 
so  that  it  doesn’t  come  to  more  nor  that  at  the 
very  outside.” 

“ That  is  taldng  a commercial  view  of  affliction, 
Connell;  but  you  must  promise  me  to  give  up 
drinking.” 

“ Why  thin  upon  my  credit,  your  honour  aston- 
ishes me.  Is  it  to  give  up  banishin’  grief?  I 
have  a regard  for  you.  Sir,  for  many  a dalin 
we  had  together;  but  for  all  that,  faix,  I’d  be 
miserable  for  no  man,  barrin’  for  her  that’s  gone. 
If  I’d  be  so  to  oblage  any  one,  I’d  do  it  for  your 
family;  for  divil  resave  the  family  in  all  Eu- 
rope ” 

“ Easy,  Connell — I am  not  to  be  palmed  off 
in  that  manner;  I really  have  a respect  for  the 
character  which  you  bore,  and  wish  you  to  re- 
cover it  once  more.  Consider  that  you  are  dis- 
gracing yourself  and  your  children  by  drinking 
so  excessively  from  day  to  day — indeed,  I am 
told,  almost  from  hour  to  hour.” 

“Augh!  don’t  believe  the  half  o’  what  you 
hear.  Sir.  Faith,  somebody  has  been  dhrawin’ 


222  IRELAND 

your  honour  out!  Why  I am  never  dhrunk,  Sir; 
faith,  I’m  not.” 

“You  will  destroy  your  health,  Connell,  as 
well  as  your  character;  besides,  you  are  not  to  be 
told  that  it  is  a sin,  a crime  against  God,  and 
an  evil  example  to  society.” 

“ Show  me  the  man,  plase  your  honour,  that 
ever  seen  me  incapable.  That’s  the  proof  o’  the 
thing.” 

“ But  why  do  you  drink  at  all?  It  is  not  nec- 
essary.” 

“ An’  do  you  never  taste  a dhrop  yourself.  Sir, 
plase  your  honour?  I’ll  be  bound  you  do.  Sir, 
raise  your  little  finger  of  an  odd  time,  as  well 
as  another.  Eh,  Ma’am?  That’s  cornin’  close 
to  his  honour!  An’  faix,  small  blame  to  him, 
an’  a weeshy  sup  o’  the  wine  to  the  misthress  her- 
self, to  correct  the  tindherness  of  her  dilicate 
appetite.” 

“ Peter,  this  bantering  must  not  pass : I think 
I have  a claim  upon  your  respect  and  deference. 
I have  uniformly  been  your  friend,  and  the 
friend  of  your  children  and  family,  but  more 
especially  of  your  late  excellent,  and  exemplary 
wife.” 

“ Before  God  an’  man,  I acknowledge  that. 
Sir — I do — I do.  But,  Sir,  to  spake  sarious — 
it’s  thruth.  Ma’am,  downright — ^to  spake  sarious, 
my  heart’s  broke,  an’  every  day  it’s  brakin’  more 
an’  more.  She’s  gone.  Sir,  that  used  to  manage 
me;  an’  now  I can’t  turn  myself  to  anything, 
barrin’  the  dhrink — God  help  me!  ” 

“ I honour  you,  Connell,  for  the  attachment 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


223 


which  you  bear  towards  the  memory  of  your  wife, 
but  I utterly  condemn  the  manner  in  which  you 
display  it.  To  become  a drunkard  is  to  disgrace 
her  memory.  You  know  it  was  a character  she 
detested.’’ 

“ I know  it  all,  Sir,  an’  that  you  have  thruth 
an  rason  on  your  side ; but.  Sir,  you  never  lost  a 
wife  that  you  loved;  an’  long  may  you  be  so,  I 
pray  the  heavenly  Father  this  day!  Maybe  if 
you  did,  Sir,  plase  your  honour,  that,  wid  your 
heart  sinkin’  like  a stone  widin  you,  you’d  thry 
whether  or  not  something  couldn’t  rise  it.  Sir, 
only  for  the  dhrink  I’d  be  dead.” 

“ There  I totally  differ  from  you,  Connell. 
The  drink  only  prolongs  your  grief,  by  adding 
to  it  the  depression  of  spirits  which  it  always 
produces.  Had  you  not  become  a drinker,  you 
would  long  before  this  have  been  once  more  a 
cheerful,  active,  and  industrious  man.  Your 
sorrow  would  have  worn  away  gradually,  and 
nothing  but  an  agreeable  melancholy — an  affec- 
tionate remembrance  of  your  excellent  wife — 
would  have  remained.  Look  at  other  men.” 

“ But  where’s  the  man.  Sir,  had  sich  a wife  to 
grieve  for  as  she  was?  Don’t  be  hard  on  me. 
Sir.  I’m  not  a dhrunkard.  It’s  thrue  I dhrink 
a great  dale;  but  thin  I can  bear  a great  dale, 
so  that  I’m  never  incapable.” 

“ Connell,”  said  the  lady,  you  will  break 
down  your  constitution,  and  bring  yourself  to  an 
earlier  death  than  you  would  otherwise  meet.” 
‘‘  I care  very  little,  indeed,  how  soon  I was 
dead,  not  makin’  you.  Ma’am,  an  ill  answer.” 


224 


IRELAND 


“ Oh  fie,  Connell,  for  you,  a sensible  man  and 
a Christian,  to  talk  in  such  a manner!  ” 

“ Throth,  thin,  I don’t.  Ma’am.  She's  gone, 
an’  I’d  be  glad  to  folly  her  as  soon  as  I could. 
Yes,  asthore,  you’re  departed  from  me!  an’  now 
I’m  gone  asthray — out  o’  the  right,  an’  out  o’ 
the  good!  Oh,  Ma’am,”  he  proceeded,  whilst 
the  tears  rolled  fast  down  his  cheeks,  “ if  you 
knew  her — ^her  last  words  too — Oh,  she  was — 
she  was — but  where’s  the  use  o’  sayin’  what  she 
was? — I beg  your  pardon.  Ma’am, — your  hon- 
our, Sir,  ’ill  forgive  my  want  o’  manners,  sure 
I know  it’s  bad  breedin’,  but  I can’t  help  it.” 
“Well,  promise,”  said  his  landlord,  “to  give 
up  drink.  Indeed,  I wish  you  would  take  an 
oath  against  it : you  are  a conscientious  man,  and 
I know  would  keep  it,  otherwise  I should  not  pro- 
pose it,  for  I discountenance  such  oaths  gener- 
ally. Will  you  promise  me  this,  Connell?  ” 

“ I’ll  promise  to  think  of  it,  your  honour, — 
aginst  takin’  a sartin  quantity,  at  any  rate.” 

“If  you  refuse  it.  I’ll  think  you  are  unmindful 
of  the  good  feeling  which  we  have  ever  shown 
your  family.” 

“ What? — do  you  think.  Sir,  I’m  ungrateful 
to  you?  That’s  a sore  cut.  Sir,  to  make  a villain 
o’  me.  Where’s  the  book? — I’ll  swear  this  min- 
ute. Have  you  a Bible,  Ma’am? — I’ll  show  you 
that  I’m  not  mane,  any  way.” 

“ No,  Connell,  you  shall  not  do  it  rashly;  you 
must  be  cool  and  composed:  hut  go  home,  and 
turn  it  in  your  mind,”  she  replied;  “ and  remem- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


225 


ber,  that  it  is  the  request  of  me  and  my  husband, 
for  your  own  good/’ 

“ Neither  must  you  swear  before  me,”  said  his 
landlord,  “ but  before  ]\Ir.  JNIulcahy,  who,  as  it 
is  an  oath  connected  with  your  moral  conduct, 
is  the  best  person  to  be  present.  It  must  be 
voluntary,  however.  Now,  good  bye,  Connell, 
and  think  of  what  we  said;  but  take  care  never 
to  carry  home  any  of  my  servants  in  the  same 
plight  in  which  you  put  John  Smith  to-day.” 

“ Faix  thin.  Sir,  he  had  no  business,  wid  your 
honour’s  livery  upon  his  back,  to  begin  lecthurin’ 
me  agin  dhrinkin’,  as  he  did.  We  may  all  do 
very  well.  Sir,  till  the  timptation  crasses  us — 
but  that’s  what  thries  us.  It  thried  him,  but  he 
didn’t  stand  it — faix  he  didn’t! — ha,  ha,  ha! 
Good  mornin’.  Sir — God  bless  you.  Ma’am! 
Divil  resave  the  family  in  all  Europe  ” 

“ Good  morning,  Connell — good  morning ! — 
Pray  remember  what  we  said.” 

Peter,  however,  could  not  relinquish  the  whis- 
key. His  sons,  daughters,  friends,  and  neigh- 
bours, all  assailed  him,  but  with  no  success.  He 
either  bantered  them  in  his  usual  way,  or  re- 
verted to  his  loss,  and  sank  into  sorrow.  This 
last  was  the  condition  in  which  they  found  him 
most  intractable;  for  a man  is  never  considered 
to  be  in  a state  that  admits  of  reasoning  or  argu- 
ment, when  he  is  known  to  be  pressed  by  strong 
gushes  of  personal  feeling.  A plan  at  length 
struck  Father  Mulcahy,  which  he  resolved  to  put 
into  immediate  execution. 

Ill— 15 


226 


IRELAND 


“ Peter,”  said  he,  “ if  you  do  not  abandon 
drink,  I shall  stop  the  masses  which  I’m  offering 
up  for  the  repose  of  your  wife’s  soul,  and  I will 
also  return  you  the  money  I received  for  saying 
them.” 

This  was  perhaps  the  only  point  on  which 
Peter  was  accessible.  He  felt  staggered  at  such 
an  unexpected  intimation,  and  was  for  some  time 
silent. 

“ You  will  then  feel,”  added  the  priest,  “ that 
your  drunkenness  is  prolonging  the  sufferings  of 
your  wife,  and  that  she  is  as  much  concerned  in 
your  being  sober,  as  you  are  yourself.” 

“ I will  give  in,”  rephed  Peter;  “ I didn’t  see 
the  thing  in  that  light.  No — I will  give  it  up;^ 
but  if  I swear  aginst  it,  you  must  allow  me  a 
rasonable  share  every  day,  an’  I’ll  not  go  bey  ant 
it,  of  coorse.  The  thruth  is,  I’d  die  soon  if  I 
gev  it  up  altogether.” 

“We  have  certainly  no  objection  against  that,” 
said  the  priest,  “ provided  you  keep  within  what 
would  injure  your  health,  or  make  you  tipsy. 
Your  drunkenness  is  not  only  sinful  but  dis- 
reputable; besides,  you  must  not  throw  a slur 
upon  the  character  of  your  children,  who  hold 
respectable  and  rising  situations  in  the  world.” 

“ No,”  said  Peter,  in  a kind  of  soliloquy,  “ I’d 
lay  down  my  life,  avourneen,  sooner  nor  I’d  cause 
you  a minute’s  sufferin’.  Father  Mulcahy,  go 
an  wid  the  masses.  I’ll  get  an  oath  drawn  up, 
an’  whin  it’s  done.  I’ll  swear  to  it.  I know  a 
man  that’ll  do  it  for  me.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


227 


The  priest  then  departed,  quite  satisfied  with 
having  accomphshed  his  object;  and  Peter,  in  the 
course  of  that  evening,  directed  his  steps  to  the 
house  of  the  village  schoolmaster,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  getting  him  to  “ draw  up  ” the  intended 
oath. 

“ Misther  O’Flaherty,”  said  he,  “ I’m  cornin’ 
to  ax  a requist  of  you  an’  I hope  you’ll  grant 
it  to  me.  I brought  down  a sup  in  this  flask, 
an’  while  we’re  takin’  it,  we  can  talk  over  what  I 
want.” 

“ If  it  be  anything  widin  the  circumference 
of  my  power,  set  it  down,  Misther  Connell,  as 
already  operated  upon.  I’d  drop  a pen  to  no 
man  at  keepin’  Books  by  Double  Enthry,  which 
is  the  Italian  method  invinted  by  Pope  Gregory 
the  Great.  The  Three  Sets  bear  a theological 
ratio  to  the  three  states  of  a thrue  Christian. 
‘The  Waste-book,’  says  Pope  Gregory,  ‘is  this 
world,  the  Journal  is  purgatory,  an’  the  Ledger 
is  heaven.  Or  it  may  be  compared,’  he  says,  in 
the  priface  of  the  work,  ‘ to  the  three  states  of 
the  Catholic  church — ^the  church  Militant,  the 
church  Suffering,  and  the  church  Triumphant.’ 
The  lamin’  of  that  man  was  beyant  the  reach 
of  credibihty.” 

“ Arra,  have  you  a small  glass,  Masther?  You 
see,  Misther  O’Flaherty,  it’s  consarnin’  purga- 
tory, this  that  I want  to  talk  about.” 

“ Nancy,  get  us  a glass — oh,  here  it  is!  Thin 
if  it  be,  it’s  a wrong  enthry  in  the  Journal.” 

“Here’s  your  health,  Masther! — Not  forgettin’ 


228 


IRELAND 


you,  Mrs.  O’Flaherty.  No,  indeed,  thin  it’s  not 
in  the  Journal,  but  an  oath  I’m  goin’  to  take 
aginst  liquor.” 

“ Nothin’  is  asier  to  post  than  it  is.  We  must 
enter  it  undher  the  head  of — let  me  see ! — ^it  must 
go  in  the  spirit  account,  undher  the  head  of 
Profit  an’  Loss.  Your  good  health,  Mr.  Con- 
nell!— Nancy,  I dhrink  to  your  improvement  in 
imperturbability!  Yes,  it  must  be  enthered 
undher  the  ” 

“ Faix,  undher  the  rose,  I think,”  observed 
Peter;  “ don’t  you  know  the  smack  of  it?  You 
see  since  I tuck  to  it,  I like  the  smell  o’  what  I 
used  to  squeeze  out  o’  the  barley  myself,  long 
ago.  Mr.  O’Flaherty,  I only  want  you  to  dhraw 
up  an  oath  aginst  liquor  for  me;  but  it’s  not  for 
the  books,  good  or  bad.  I promised  to  Father 
Mulcahy,  that  I’d  do  it.  It’s  regardin’  my  poor 
Ellish’s  sowl  in  purgatory.” 

“ Nancy,  hand  me  a slate  an’  cutter.  Faith, 
the  same’s  a provident  resolution;  but  how  is  it 
an’  purgatory  concatenated?  ” 

“ The  priest,  you  see,  won’t  go  an  wid  the 
masses  for  her  till  I take  the  oath.” 

“ That’s  but  wake  logic,  if  you  ped  him  for 
thim.” 

“Faix,  an’  I did — an’  well,  too; — but  about 
the  oath?  Have  you  the  pencil?  ” 

“ I have;  jist  lave  the  thing  to  me.” 

“ Asy,  Masther — you  don’t  undherstand  it  yit. 
Put  down  two  tumblers  for  me  at  home.” 

“ How  is  that,  Misther  Connell? — It’s  mys- 
terious, if  you’re  about  to  swear  aginst  liquor!  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


220 


“ I am.  Put  down,  as  I said,  two  tumblers 
for  me  at  home. — Are  they  down?” 

“ They  are  down;  but  ” 

‘‘ Asy! — very  good!  Put  down  two  more  for 
me  at  Dan’s.  Let  me  see ! — two  more  behind  the 
garden.  Well! — put  down  one  at  Father  Mul- 
cahy’s; — two  more  at  Frank  M^Carroll’s  of  Kil- 
clay.  How  many’s  that?  ” 

“ Nine!!!” 

“ Very  good.  Now  put  down  one  wid  ould 
OBartle  Gorman,  of  Cargah;  an’  two  over  wid 
honest  Roger  M‘Gaugy,  of  Nurchasey.  How 
many  have  you  now?  ” 

“Twelve  in  all!!!!  But,  Misther  Connell, 
there’s  a demonstration  badly  wanted  here:  I 
must  confiss  I was  always  bright,  but  at  present 
I’m  as  dark  as  Nox.  I’d  thank  you  for  a taste 
of  explanation.” 

“ Asy,  man  alive ! Is  there  twelve  in  all?  ” 

“ Twelve  in  all:  I’ve  calculated  them.” 

“Well,  we’ll  hould  to  that.  Och,  och! — I’m 
sure,  avourneen,  afore  I’d  let  you  suffer  one  min- 
ute’s pain,  I’d  not  scruple  to  take  an  oath  aginst 
liquor,  any  way.  He  may  go  an  wid  the  masses 
now  for  you,  as  soon  as  he  likes!  Mr.  O’Fla- 
herty, will  you  put  that  down  on  paper,  an’  I’ll 
swear  to  it,  wid  a blessin’,  to-morrow.” 

“But  what  object  do  you  wish  to  effectuate 
by  this?  ” 

“You  see,  ]\Iasther,  I dhrink  one  day  wid  an- 
other from  a score  to  two  dozen  tumblers,  an’  I 
want  to  swear  to  no  more  nor  twelve  in  the  twen- 
ty-four hours.” 


230 


IRELAND 


“Why,  there’s  intelligibility  in  that! — ^Wid 
great  pleasure,  Mr.  Connell,  I’ll  indite  it. 
Katty,  tare  me  a lafe  out  o’  Brian  Murphy’s  copy 
there.” 

“ You  see,  Masther,  it’s  for  EUish’s  sake  I’m 
doin’  this.  State  that  in  the  oath.” 

“ I know  it;  an’  well  she  desarved  that  speci- 
men of  abstinence  from  you,  Misther  Connell. 
Thank  you! — Your  health  agin!  an’  God  grant 
you  grace  an’  fortitude  to  go  through  wid  the 
same  oath! — An’  so  he  will,  or  I’m  grievously 
mistaken  in  you.” 

“ OATH  AGAINST  LIQUOR, 

made  by  me,  Cornelius  O’Flaherty,  Philomath,  on  behalf  of 
Misther  Peter  Connell,  of  the  Cross-roads,  Merchant,  on 
one  part — and  of  the  soul  of  Mrs.  Ellish  Connell,  now  in 
purgatory,  Merchantess,  on  the  other. 

I solemnly,  and  meritoriously,  and  soberly  swear,  that 
a single  tumbler  of  whiskey  punch  shall  not  cross  my  lips 
during  the  twenty-four  hours  of  the  day,  barring  twelve. 


the  locality  of  which  is  as  followeth: 

**  Imprimis — Two  tumblers  at  home 2 

Secundo — Two  more  ditto  at  my  son  Dan’s 2 

Tertio — Two  more  ditto  behind  my  own  garden ....  2 
Quarto — One  ditto  at  the  Reverend  Father  Mulcahy’s  1 
Quinto — Two  more  ditto  at  Frank  M'Carroll’s,  of 

Kilclay  2 

Sexto — One  ditto  wid  ould  Bartle  Gorman,  of  Car- 

gah  1 

Septimo — Two  more  ditto  wid  honest  Roger 
M'Gaugy,  of  Nurchasey 2 


12 

N.B. — I except  in  case  any  Docthor  of  Physic  might  think 
it  right  and  medical  to  ordher  me  more  for  my  health;  or 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


231 


in  case  I could  get  Father  Mulcahy  to  take  the  oath  off  of 
me  for  a start,  at  a wedding,  or  a christening,  or  at  any 
other  meeting  of  friends  where  there’s  drink. 

his 

Witness  present,  Peter  X Connell. 

Cornelius  O’Flaherty,  Philomath.  mark. 

June  the  4<th,  18 — . 

“ 2^^  I certify  that  I have  made  and  calculated  this  oath 
for  Misther  Pether  Connell,  Merchant,  and  that  it  is  strictly 
and  arithmetically  proper  and  correct. 

“ Cornelius  O’Flaherty,  Philomath. 

**  Dated  this  4<th  day  of  June,  18 — .” 

“ I think,  Misther  O’Flaherty,  it’s  a dacent 
oath,  as  it  stands.  Plase  God  I’ll  swear  to  it 
some  time  to-morrow  evenin/^ 

“ Dacent!  Why  I don’t  wish  to  become  eulo- 
gistically  addicted;  but  I’d  back  the  same  oath, 
for  both  grammar  and  arithmetic,  aginst  any  that 
ever  was  drawn  up  by  a lawyer — ay,  by  the  great 
Counsellor  himself! — ^but  faith,  I’d  not  face  liim 
at  a Vow,  for  all  that;  he’s  the  greatest  man  at 
a Vow  in  the  three  kingdoms.” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what  I’m  thinldn’,  Masther — as 
my  hand’s  in,  mightn’t  I as  well  take  another 
wid  an  ould  friend  o’  mine,  Owen  Smith,  of 
Lisbuy?  He’s  a dacent  ould  residenther,  an’ 
likes  it.  It’ll  make  the  baker’s,  or  the  long 
dozen.” 

“ Why,  it’s  not  a bad  thought;  but  won’t  thir- 
teen get  into  your  head?  ” 

“ No,  nor  three  more  to  the  back  o’  that.  I 
only  begin  to  get  hearty  about  seventeen ; so  that 
the  long  dozen,  afther  all,  is  best;  for  God  he 


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knows,  I’ve  a regard  for  Owen  Smith  this  many 
a year,  an’  I wouldn’t  wish  to  lave  him  out.” 

“Very  well — I’ll  add  it  up  to  the  other  part 
of  the  oath. 

‘ Octavo — One  ditto  out  of  respect  for  dacent  Owen 
Smith,  of  Lisbuy  1* 

Now  I must  make  the  total  amount  thirteen,  an’ 
all  will  be  right.” 

“ Masther,  have  you  a prayer-book  widin? — 
bekase  if  you  have,  I may  as  well  swear  it  here, 
an’  you  can  witness  it.” 

“ Katty,  hand  over  the  Spiritual  Exercises — 
a book  aquil  to  the  Bible  itself  for  piety  an’  de- 
votion.” 

“ Sure  they  say,  Masther,  any  book  that  the 
name  o’  God  is  in,  is  good  for  an  oath.  Now, 
wid  the  help  o’  goodness,  repate  the  words  afore 
me,  an’  I’ll  sware  thim.” 

O’Flaherty  hemmed  two  or  three  times,  and 
complied  with  Peter’s  wishes,  who  followed  him 
in  the  words  until  the  oath  was  concluded.  He 
then  kissed  the  book,  and  expressed  himself  much 
at  ease,  as  well,  he  said,  upon  the  account  of 
Ellish’s  soul,  as  for  the  sake  of  his  children. 

For  some  time  after  this,  his  oath  was  the 
standing  jest  of  the  neighbourhood:  even  to  this 
day,  Peter  Connell’s  oath  against  liquor  is  a prov- 
erb in  that  part  of  the  country.  Immediately 
after  he  had  sworn,  no  one  could  ever  perceive 
that  he  violated  it  in  the  slightest  degree ; indeed 
there  could  be  no  doubt  as  to  his  literally  ful- 
filling it.  A day  never  passed  in  which  he  did 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


233 


not  punctually  pay  a friendly  visit  to  those  whose 
names  were  dotted  down,  with  whom  he  sat, 
pulled  out  his  flask,  and  drank  his  quantum.  In 
the  meantime  the  poor  man  was  breaking  down 
rapidly;  so  much  so,  that  his  appearance  gen- 
erally excited  pity,  if  not  sorrow,  among  his 
neighbours.  His  character  became  simpler  every 
day,  and  his  intellect  evidently  more  exhausted. 
The  inoffensive  humour,  for  which  he  had  been 
noted,  was  also  completely  on  the  wane;  his  eye 
waxed  dim,  his  step  feeble,  but  the  benevolence 
of  his  heart  never  failed  him.  Many  acts  of  his 
private  generosity  are  well  known,  and  still  re- 
membered with  gratitude. 

In  proportion  as  the  strength  of  his  mind  and 
constitution  diminished,  so  did  his  capacity  for 
bearing  liquor.  When  he  first  bound  liimself  by 
the  oath  not  to  exceed  the  long  dozen,  such  was 
his  vigour,  that  the  effects  of  thirteen  tumblers 
could  scarcely  be  perceived  on  him.  Tliis  state 
of  health,  however,  did  not  last.  As  he  wore 
away,  the  influence  of  so  much  liquor  was  be- 
coming stronger,  until  at  length  he  found  that  it 
was  more  than  he  could  bear,  that  he  frequently 
confounded  the  names  of  the  men,  and  the  num- 
ber of  tumblers  mentioned  in  the  oath,  and  some- 
times took  in,  in  his  route,  persons  and  places 
not  to  be  found  in  it  at  all.  This  grieved  him, 
and  he  resolved  to  wait  upon  O’Flaherty  for  the 
purpose  of  having  some  means  devised  of  guiding 
him  during  his  potations. 

“ Masther,”  said  he,  “ we  must  thry  an’  make 
this  oath  somethin’  plainer.  You  see,  whin  I get 


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confused,  I’m  not  able  to  remimber  things  as  I 
ought.  Sometimes,  instid  o’  one  tumbler,  I take 
two  at  the  wrong  place;  an’  sarra  bit  o’  me  but 
called  in  an’  had  three  wid  ould  Jack  Rogers, 
that  isn’t  in  it  at  all.  On  another  day  I had  a 
couple  wid  honest  Barny  Casey,  an  my  way 
acrass  to  Bartle  Gorman’s.  I’m  not  what  I was, 
Masther,  ahagur;  so  I’d  thank  you  to  dhraw  it 
out  more  clearer,  if  you  can,  nor  it  was.” 

“I  see,  Mr.  Connell;  I comprehend  wid  the 
greatest  ase  in  life,  the  very  plan  for  it.  We 
must  reduce  the  oath  to  Geography,  for  I’m  at 
home  there,  bein’  a Surveyor  myself.  I’ll  lay 
down  a map  o’  the  parish,  an’  draw  the  houses 
of  your  friends  at  their  proper  places,  so  that 
you’ll  never  be  out  o’  your  latitude  at  all.” 

“ Faix,  I doubt  that,  Masther — ha,  ha,  ha!” 
replied  Peter;  “ I’m  afeard  I will,  of  an  odd  time, 
for  I’m  not  able  to  carry  what  I used  to  do;  but 
no  matther:  thry  what  you  can  do  for  me  this 
time,  any  how.  I think  I could  bear  the  long 
dozen  still,  if  I didn’t  make  mistakes.” 

O’Flaherty  accordingly  set  himself  to  work; 
and  as  his  knowledge,  not  only  of  the  parish,  but 
of  every  person  and  house  in  it,  was  accurate,  he 
soon  had  a tolerably  correct  skeleton  map  of  it 
drawn  for  Peter’s  use. 

“ Now,”  said  he,  “ lend  me  your  ears.” 

“ Faix,  I’ll  do  no  sich  thing,”  replied  Peter — 
“ I know  a thrick  worth  two  of  it.  Lend  you 
my  ears,  inagh!^^ — catch  me  at  it!  You  have 
a bigger  pair  of  your  own  nor  I have — ha,  ha, 
ha!” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


235 


“ Well,  in  other  words,  pay  attintion.  Now, 
see  this  dot — that’s  your  own  house.” 

“ Put  a crass  there,”  said  Peter,  “ an  thin  I’ll 
know  it’s  the  Crass-roads.” 

“ Upon  my  reputation,  you’re  right;  an’  that’s 
what  I call  a good  specimen  of  ingenuity.  I’ll 
take  the  hint  from  that,  an’  we’ll  make  it  a 
Hieroglyphical  as  well  as  a Geographical  oath. 
Well,  there’s  a crass,  wid  two  tumblers.  Is  that 
clear?  ” 

“ It  is,  it  is!  Go  an.” 

“ Now  here  we  draw  a line  to  your  son  Dan’s. 
Let  me  see;  he  keeps  a mill,  an’  sells  cloth.  Very 
good.  I’ll  dhraw  a mill-wheel  an’  a yard-wand. 
There’s  two  tumblers.  Will  you  know  that?  ” 
“I  see  it;  go  an,  nothin’  can  be  clearer.  So 
far  I can’t  go  asthray.” 

“WeU,  what  next?  Two  behind  your  own 
garden.  What  metaphor  for  the  garden?  Let 
me  see! — let  me  cogitate!  A dragon — the  Hes- 
perides!  That’s  beyant  you,  A bit  of  a hedge 
will  do,  an’  a gate.” 

“ Don’t  put  a gate  in,  it’s  not  lucky.  You 
know  when  a man  takes  to  dhrink,  they  say  he’s 
goin’  a grey  gate,  or  a black  gate,  or  a bad  gate. 
Put  that  out,  an’  make  the  hedge  longer,  an’ 
it’ll  do — ^wid  the  two  tumblers,  though.” 

“ They’re  down.  One  at  the  Reverend  Father 
Mulcahy’s.  How  will  we  thranslate  the  priest?  ” 
“ Faix,  I doubt  that  will  be  a difficquilt  busi- 
ness.” 

“ Upon  my  reputation,  I agree  wid  you  in  that, 
especially  whin  he  repates  Latin.  However, 


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we’ll  see.  He  writes  P.P.  afther  his  name; — 
pee-pee  is  what  we  call  the  turkeys  wid.  What 
’u(^  you  think  o’  two  turkeys?  ” 

“ The  priest  would  like  them  roasted,  but  I 
couldn’t  undherstand  that.  No;  put  down  the 
sign  o’  the  horsewhip,  or  the  cudgel;  for  he’s 
handy,  an’  argues  well  wid  both?” 

“ Good!  I’ll  put  down  the  horsewhip  first,  an’ 
the  cudgel  alongside  of  it;  then  the  tumbler,  an’ 
there  ’ill  be  the  sign  o’  the  priest.” 

“ Ay  do,  Masther,  an’  faix  the  priest  ’ill  he 
complate — there  can  be  no  mistakin’  him  thin. 
Divil  a one  but  that’s  a good  thought ! ” 

“ There  it  is  in  black  an’  white.  Who  comes 
next?  Frank  M‘ Carroll.  He’s  a farmer.  I’ll 
put  down  a spade  an’  a harrow.  Well,  that’s 
done — two  tumblers.” 

“ I won’t  mistake  that  aither.  It’s  clear 
enough.” 

“ Bartle  Gorman’s  of  Cargah.  Bartle’s  a little 
lame,  an’  uses  a staff  wid  a cross  on  the  end  that 
he  houlds  in  his  hand.  I’ll  put  down  a staff  wid 
a cross  on  it.” 

“ Would  there  be  no  danger  of  me  mistakin’ 
that  for  the  priest’s  cudgel?  ” 

“ Divil  the  shghtest.  I’ll  pledge  my  knowl- 
edge of  geography,  they’re  two  very  different 
weapons.” 

“ Well,  put  it  down — I’ll  know  it.” 

“ Roger  M‘Gaugy  of  Nurchasy.  What  for 
him?  Roger’s  a pig-driver.  I’ll  put  down  a 
pig.  You’ll  comprehend  that?  ” 

“ I ought;  for  many  a pig  I sould  him  in  my 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


237 


day.  Put  down  the  pig;  an’  if  you  could  put 
two  black  spots  upon  his  back,  I’d  know  it  to 
be  one  I sould  him  about  four  years  agone — the 
fattest  ever  was  in  the  country — it  had  to  be 
brought  home  on  a car,  for  it  wasn’t  able  to  walk 
wid  fat.” 

“ Very  good;  the  spots  are  on  it.  The  last  is 
Owen  Smith  of  Lisbuy.  Now,  do  you  see  that 
I’ve  drawn  a line  from  place  to  place,  so  that  you 
have  nothing  to  do  only  to  keep  to  it  as  you  go. 
What  for  Owen?  ” 

“Owen!  Let  me  ?ee — Owen!  Pooh!  What’s 
come  over  me  that  I’ve  nothing  for  Owen?  Ay! 
I have  it.  He’s  a horse-jockey;  put  down  a grey 
mare  I sould  him  about  five  years  agone.” 

“ I’ll  put  down  a horse ; but  I can’t  make  a grey 
mare  wid  black  ink.” 

“ Well,  make  a mare  of  her,  any  way.” 

“ F aith,  an’  that  same  puzzles  me.  Stop,  I 
have  it;  I’ll  put  a foal  along  wid  her.” 

“ As  good  as  the  bank.  God  bless  you,  Misther 
O’Flaherty.  I think  this’ll  keep  me  from  mis- 
takes. An’  now,  if  you’ll  slip  up  to  me  afther 
dusk,  I’ll  send  you  down  a couple  o’  bottles  and 
a flitch.  Sure  you  desarve  more  for  the  throuble 
you  tuck.” 

Many  of  our  readers,  particularly  of  our  Eng- 
lish readers,  will  be  somewhat  startled  to  hear, 
that,  except  the  change  of  names  and  places, 
there  is  actually  little  exaggeration  in  the  form 
of  tliis  oath;  so  just  is  the  observation,  that 
the  romance  of  truth  frequently  far  exceeds  that 
of  fiction. 


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Peter  had,  however,  over-rated  his  own 
strength  in  supposing  that  he  could  bear  the  long 
dozen  in  future;  ere  many  months  passed,  he  was 
scarcely  able  to  reach  the  half  of  that  number 
without  sinking  into  intoxication.  Whilst  in  this 
state,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  going  to  the  grave- 
yard in  which  his  wife  lay  buried,  where  he  sat, 
and  wept  like  a child,  sang  her  favourite  songs, 
or  knelt  and  off ered  up  his  prayers  for  the  repose 
of  her  soul.  None  ever  mocked  him  for  this;  on 
the  contrary,  there  was  always  some  kind  per- 
son to  assist  him  home.  And  as  he  staggered  on, 
instead  of  sneers  and  ridicule,  one  might  hear 
such  expressions  as  these: — 

“Poor  Pether!  he’s  nearly  off;  an’  a dacent, 
kind  neighbour  he  ever  was.  The  death  of  the 
wife  broke  his  heart — ^he  never  ris  his  head  since.” 

“ Ay,  poor  man!  God  pity  him!  He’ll  soon 
be  sleepin’  beside  her,  beyant  there,  where  she’s 
lyin’.  It  was  never  known  of  Peter  Connell  that 
he  offinded  man,  woman,  or  child,  since  he  was 
born,  barrin’  the  gaugers,  bad  luck  to  thim,  afore 
he  was  marrid — but  that  was  no  offince.  Sowl, 
he  was  their  match,  any  how.  When  he  an’  the 
wife’s  gone,  they  won’t  lave  their  likes  behind 
them.  The  sons  are  bodaghs — gintlemen,  now; 
an’  it’s  nothin’  but  dinners  an’  company.  Aha- 
gur,  that  wasn’t  the  way  their  hard-workin’ 
father  an’  mother  made  the  money  that  they’re 
houldin’  their  heads  up  wid  such  consequence 
upon.” 

The  children,  however,  did  not  give  Peter  up 
as  hopeless.  Father  Mulcahy,  too,  once  more 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


239 


assailed  him  on  his  weak  side.  One  morning, 
when  he  was  sober,  nervous,  and  depressed,  the 
priest  arrived,  and  finding  him  at  home,  addressed 
him  as  follows: — 

“ Peter,  I’m  sorry,  and  vexed,  and  angry,  this 
morning;  and  you  are  the  cause  of  it.” 

“How  is  that,  your  Reverence?”  said  Peter. 
“ God  help  me,”  he  added,  “ don’t  be  hard  an  me. 
Sir,  for  I’m  to  be  pitied.  Don’t  be  hard  on  me, 
for  the  short  time  I’ll  be  here.  I know  it  won’t 
be  long — I’ll  be  wid  her  soon.  Asthore  machree, 
we’ll  be  together,  I hope,  afore  long — an’,  oh! 
if  it  was  the  wiU  o’  God,  I would  be  glad  it  was 
afore  night ! ” 

The  poor,  shattered,  heart-broken  creature 
wept  bitterly,  for  he  felt  somewhat  sensible  of  the 
justice  of  the  reproof  which  he  expected  from 
the  priest,  as  weU  as  undiminished  sorrow  for  his 
wife. 

“ I’m  not  going  to  be  hard  on  you,”  said  the 
good-natured  priest;  “ I only  called  to  tell  you  a 
dream  that  your  son  Dan  had  last  night  about 
you  and  his  mother.” 

“ About  Ellish!  Oh,  for  heaven’s  sake,  what 
about  her.  Father,  avourneen?  ” 

“ She  appeared  to  him,  last  night,”  replied 
Father  Mulcahy,  “ and  told  him  that  your  drink- 
ing kept  her  out  of  happiness.” 

“ Queen  of  heaven!  ” exclaimed  Peter,  deeply 
affected,  “ is  that  true?  Oh,”  said  he,  dropping 
on  his  knees,  “ Father,  ahagur  machree,  pardon 
me — oh,  forgive  me!  I now  promise,  solemnly 
and  seriously,  to  drink  neither  in  the  house  nor 


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out  of  it,  for  the  time  to  come,  not  one  drop  at 
all,  good,  bad,  or  indiiferent,  of  either  whiskey, 
wine,  or  punch — &amV  one  glass.  Are  you  now 
satisfied?  an’  do  you  think  she’ll  get  to  happi- 
ness?” 

“ All  will  be  weU,  I trust,”  said  the  priest. 
“ I shall  mention  this  to  Dan  and  the  rest,  and 
depend  upon  it,  they,  too,  will  be  happy  to  hear 
it.” 

“ Here’s  what  Mr.  O’Flaherty  an’  myself  made 
up,”  said  Peter:  “burn  it.  Father;  take  it  out 
of  my  sight,  for  it’s  now  no  use  to  me.” 

“ What  is  this  at  all?  ” said  Mr.  Mulcahy,  look- 
ing into  it.  “Is  it  an  oath?  ” 

“ It’s  the  Joggraphy  of  one  I swore  some  time 
ago;  but  it’s  now  out  of  date — I’m  done  wid  it.” 
The  priest  could  not  avoid  smiling  when  he 
perused  it,  and  on  getting  from  Peter’s  lips  an 
explanation  of  the  hieroglyphics,  he  laughed 
heartily  at  the  ingenious  shifts  they  had  made  to 
guide  his  memory. 

Peter,  for  some  time  after  this,  confined  him- 
self to  one  glass,  as  he  had  promised;  but  he  felt 
such  depression*  and  feebleness,  that  he  ventured 
slowly,  and  by  degrees,  to  enlarge  the  “ glass  ” 
from  which  he  drank.  His  impression  touching 
the  happiness  of  his  wife  was,  that  as  he  had  for 
several  months  strictly  observed  his  promise,  she 
had  probably  during  that  period  gone  to  heaven. 
He  then  began  to  exercise  his  ingenuity  grad- 
ually, as  we  have  said,  by  using,  from  time  to 
time,  a glass  larger  than  the  preceding  one ; thus 
receding  from  the  spirit  of  his  vow  to  the  letter. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


211 


and  increasing  the  quantity  of  his  drink  from  a 
small  glass  to  the  most  capacious  tumbler  he  could 
find.  The  manner  in  which  he  drank  this  was 
highly  illustrative  of  the  customs  which  prevail 
on  this  subject  in  Ireland.  He  remembered,  that 
in  making  the  vow,  he  used  the  words,  “ neither 
in  the  house  nor  out  of  it;  ” but  in  order  to  get 
over  this  dilemma,  he  usually  stood  with  one  foot 
outside  the  threshold,  and  the  other  in  the  house, 
keeping  himself  in  that  position  which  would 
render  it  difficult  to  determine  whether  he  was 
either  out  or  in.  At  other  times,  when  he  hap- 
pened to  be  upstairs,  he  usually  thrust  one  half 
of  his  person  out  of  the  window,  with  the  same 
ludicrous  intention  of  keeping  the  letter  of  his 
vow. 

Many  a smile  this  adroitness  of  his  occasioned 
to  the  lookers-on;  but  further  ridicule  was 
checked  by  his  wo-begone  and  afflicted  look.  He 
was  now  a mere  skeleton,  feeble  and  tottering. 

One  night  in  the  depth  of  winter  he  went  into 
the  town  where  his  two  sons  resided ; he  had  been 
ill  in  mind  and  body  during  the  day,  and  he 
fancied  that  change  of  scene  and  society  might 
benefit  him.  His  daughter  and  son-in-law,  in 
consequence  of  his  illness,  watched  him  so  closely, 
that  he  could  not  succeed  in  getting  his  usual 
‘‘  glass.”  This  offended  him,  and  he  escaped 
without  their  knowledge  to  the  son  who  kept  the 
inn.  On  arriving  there,  he  went  up  stairs,  and 
by  a douceur  to  the  waiter,  got  a large  tumbler 
filled  with  spirits.  The  lingering  influences  of 
a conscience  that  generally  felt  strongly  on  the 


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side  of  moral  duty,  though  poorly  instructed, 
prompted  him  to  drink  it  in  the  usual  manner, 
by  keeping  one-half  of  his  body,  as  nearly  as  he 
could  guess,  out  of  the  window,  that  it  might 
be  said  he  drank  it  neither  in  nor  out  of  the  house. 
He  had  scarcely  finished  his  draught,  however, 
when  he  lost  his  balance,  and  was  precipitated 
upon  the  pavement.  The  crash  of  his  fall  was 
heard  in  the  bar,  and  his  son,  who  had  just  come 
in,  ran,  along  with  several  others,  to  ascertain 
what  had  happened.  They  found  him,  however, 
only  severely  stunned.  He  was  immediately 
brought  in,  and  medical  aid  sent  for;  but,  though 
he  recovered  from  the  immediate  effects  of  the 
fall,  the  shock  it  gave  to  his  broken  constitution, 
and  his  excessive  grief,  carried  him  off  in  a few 
months  afterwards.  He  expired  in  the  arms  of 
his  son  and  daughter,  and  amidst  the  tears  of 
those  who  knew  his  simplicity  of  character,  his 
goodness  of  heart,  and  his  attachment  to  the  wife 
by  whose  death  that  heart  had  been  broken. 

Such  was  the  melancholy  end  of  the  honest  and 
warm-hearted  Peter  Connell,  who,  unhappily, 
was  not  a sohtary  instance  of  a man  driven  to 
habits  of  intoxication  and  neglect  of  business  by 
the  force  of  sorrow,  which  time  and  a well-reg- 
ulated mind  might  otherwise  have  overcome. 
We  have  held  him  up,  on  the  one  hand,  as  an 
example  of  worthy  imitation  in  that  industry  and 
steadiness  which,  under  the  direction  of  his  wife, 
raised  him  from  poverty  to  independence  and 
wealth;  and,  on  the  other,  as  a man  resorting  to 
the  use  of  spirituous  liquors  that  he  might  be 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


243 


enabled  to  support  affliction — a course  which,  so 
far  from  having  sustained  him  under  it,  shattered 
his  constitution,  shortened  his  life,  and  destroyed 
his  happiness.  In  conclusion,  we  wish  our  coun- 
trymen of  Peter’s  class  would  imitate  him  in  his 
better  qualities,  and  try  to  avoid  his  failings. 


THE  LIANHAN  SHEE 


One  summer  evening  Mary  Sullivan  was  sit- 
ting at  her  own  well-swept  hearthstone,  knitting 
feet  to  a pair  of  sheep’s-grey  stockings  for  Bart- 
ley, her  husband.  It  was  one  of  those  serene 
evenings  in  the  month  of  June,  when  the  decline 
of  day  assumes  a calmness  and  repose,  resembling 
what  we  might  suppose  to  have  irradiated  Eden, 
when  our  first  parents  sat  in  it  before  their  fall. 
The  beams  of  the  sun  shone  through  the  windows 
in  clear  shafts  of  amber  light,  exhibiting  mil- 
lions of  those  atoms  which  float  to  the  naked  eye 
within  its  mild  radiance.  The  dog  lay  barking 
in  his  dream  at  her  feet,  and  the  grey  cat  sat 
purring  placidly  upon  his  back,  from  which  even 
his  occasional  agitation  did  not  dislodge  her. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  was  the  wife  of  a wealthy 
farmer,  and  niece  to  the  Bev.  Felix  O’Bourke; 
her  kitchen  was  consequently  large,  comfortable, 
and  warm.  Over  where  she  sat,  jutted  out  the 
“ brace  ” well  lined  with  bacon;  to  the  right  hung 
a well-scoured  salt-box,  and  to  the  left  was  the 
jamb,  with  its  little  gothic  paneless  window  to 
admit  the  light.  Within  it  hung  several  ash 
rungs,  seasoning  for  flail-sooples,  or  boulteens, 
a dozen  of  eel-skins,  and  several  stripes  of  horse- 
skin,  as  hangings  for  them.  The  dresser  was  a 
“ parfit  white,”  and  well  furnished  with  the  usual 

244 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


245 


appurtenances.  Over  the  door  and  on  the 
“ threshel,”  were  nailed,  “for  luck,”  two  horse- 
shoes; that  had  been  found  by  accident.  In  a 
little  “ hole  ” in  the  wall,  beneath  the  salt-box,  lay 
a bottle  of  holy  water  to  keep  the  place  purified ; 
and  against  the  cope-stone  of  the  gable,  on  the 
outside,  grew  a large  lump  of  house-leek,  as  a 
specific  for  sore  eyes,  and  other  maladies. 

In  the  corner  of  the  garden  were  a few  stalks 
of  tansy  “ to  kill  the  thievin’  worms  in  the  chil- 
dhre,  the  crathurs,”  together  with  a little  Rose- 
noble,  Solomon’s  Seal,  and  Bugloss,  each  for 
some  medicinal  purpose.  The  “ lime  wather  ” 
Mrs.  Sullivan  could  make  herself,  and  the  “ bog 
bane  ” for  the  link  roe,^^  or  heart-burn,  grew  in 
their  o^vn  meadow-drain;  so  that,  in  fact,  she  had 
within  her  reach  a very  decent  pharmacopoeia, 
perhaps  as  harmless  as  that  of  the  profession 
itself.  Lying  on  the  top  of  the  salt-box  was  a 
bunch  of  fairy  flax,  and  sewed  in  the  folds  of  her 
own  scapular  was  the  dust  of  what  had  once  been 
a four-leaved  shamrock,  an  invaluable  specific 
“ for  seein’  the  good  people,”  if  they  happened 
to  come  within  the  bounds  of  vision.  Over  the 
door  in  the  inside,  over  the  beds,  and  over  the 
cattle  in  the  out-houses,  were  placed  branches  of 
withered  palm,  that  had  been  consecrated  by  the 
priest  on  Pahn  Sunday;  and  when  the  cows  hap- 
pened to  calve,  this  good  woman  tied,  with  her 
own  hands,  a woollen  thread  about  their  tails,  to 
prevent  them  from  being  overlooked  by  evil  eyes, 
or  elf -shot  by  the  fairies,  who  seem  to  possess 
a peculiar  power  over  females  of  every  species 


246 


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during  the  period  of  parturition.  It  is  unneces- 
sary to  mention  the  variety  of  charms  which  she 
possessed  for  that  obsolete  malady  the  colic,  for 
tooth-ach,  head-achs,  or  for  removing  warts,  and 
taking  motes  out  of  the  eyes;  let  it  suffice  to  in- 
form our  readers  that  she  was  well  stocked  with 
them;  and  that  in  addition  to  this,  she,  together 
with  her  husband,  drank  a potion  made  up  and 
administered  by  an  herb-doctor,  for  preventing 
for  ever  the  slightest  misunderstanding  or  quar- 
rel between  man  and  wife.  Whether  it  produced 
this  desirable  object  or  not  our  readers  may  con- 
jecture, when  we  add,  that  the  herb-doctor,  after 
having  taken  a very  liberal  advantage  of  their 
generosity,  was  immediately  compelled  to  disap- 
pear from  the  neighbourhood,  in  order  to  avoid 
meeting  with  Bartley,  who  had  a sharp  look  out 
for  him,  not  exactly  on  his  own  account,  but  “ in 
regard,”  he  said,  “that  it  had  no  effect  upon 
Mary,  at  all  at  all;  ” whilst  Mary,  on  the  other 
hand,  admitted  its  efficacy  upon  herself,  but  main- 
tained, “ that  Bartley  was  worse  nor  ever  afther 
it.” 

Such  was  Mary  Sullivan,  as  she  sat  at  her  own 
hearth,  quite  alone  engaged  as  we  have  represented 
her.  What  she  may  have  been  meditating  on  we 
cannot  pretend  to  ascertain;  but  after  some  time, 
she  looked  sharply  into  the  “ backstone,”  or  hob, 
with  an  air  of  anxiety  and  alarm.  By  and  by 
she  suspended  her  knitting,  and  listened  with 
much  earnestness,  leaning  her  right  ear  over  to 
the  hob,  from  whence  the  sounds  to  which  she 
paid  such  deep  attention  proceeded.  At  length 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


247 


she  crossed  herself  devoutly,  and  exclaimed, 
“ Queen  of  saints  about  us! — is  it  back  ye  are? 
Well  sure  there’s  no  use  in  talkin’,  bekase  they 
say  you  know  what’s  said  of  you,  or  to  you — an’ 
we  may  as  well  spake  yez  fair. — Hem — musha 
yez  are  welcome  back,  crickets,  avourneenee!  I 
hope  that,  not  like  the  last  visit  ye  ped  us,  yez 
are  cornin’  for  luck  now!  Moolyeen  died,  any 
way,  soon  afther  your  other  kailyee^^  ye  crathurs 
ye.  Here’s  the  bread,  an’  the  salt,  an’  the  male 
for  yez,  an’  we  wish  ye  well.  Eh? — saints  above, 
if  it  isn’t  listenin’  they  are  jist  like  a Christhien! 
Wurrah,  but  ye  are  the  wise  an’  the  quare  cra- 
thurs all  out ! ” 

She  then  shook  a little  holy  water  over  the 
hob,  and  muttered  to  herself  an  Irish  charm  or 
prayer  against  the  evils  which  crickets  are  often 
supposed  by  the  peasantry  to  bring  with  them, 
and  requested,  still  in  the  words  of  the  charm, 
that  their  presence  might,  on  that  occasion,  rather 
be  a presage  of  good  fortune  to  man  and  beast 
belonging  to  her. 

“ There  now,  ye  dhonans  ye,  sure  ye  can’t 
say  that  ye’re  ill-thrated  here,  anyhow,  or  ever 
was  mocked  or  made  game  of  in  the  same  family. 
You  have  got  your  hansel,  an’  full  an’  plenty  of  it ; 
hopin’  at  the  same  time  that  you’ll  have  no  rason 
in  life  to  cut  our  best  clothes  from  revinge.  Sure 
an’  I didn’t  desarve  to  have  my  brave  stuff  long 
body  riddled  the  way  it  was,  the  last  time  ye  wor 
here,  an’  only  bekase  little  Barny,  that  has  but 
the  sinse  of  a gorsoon,  tould  yez  in  a joke  to  pack 
off  wid  yourselves  somewhere  else.  Musha,  never 


248 


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heed  what  the  likes  of  him  says;  sure  he’s  but  a 
candy that  doesn’t  mane  ill,  only  the  bit  o’ 
divarsion  wid  yez.” 

She  then  resumed  her  knitting,  occasionally 
stopping,  as  she  changed  her  needles,  to  listen, 
with  her  ear  set,  as  if  she  wished  to  augur  from 
the  nature  of  their  chirping,  whether  they  came 
for  good  or  evil.  This,  however,  seemed  to  be 
beyond  her  faculty  of  translating  their  language; 
for  after  sagely  shaking  her  head  two  or  three 
times,  she  knit  more  busily  than  before.^® 

At  this  moment,  the  shadow  of  a person  pass- 
ing the  house  darkened  the  window  opposite  which 
she  sat,  and  immediately  a tall  female,  of  a wild 
dress  and  aspect,  entered  the  kitchen. 

Gho  manhy  dhea  ghud^  a ban  cholir!  the 
blessin’  o’  goodness  upon  you,  dacent  woman,” 
said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  addressing  her  in  those  kindly 
phrases  so  peculiar  to  the  Irish  language. 

Instead  of  making  her  any  reply,  however,  the 
woman,  whose  eye  glistened  with  a wild  depth  of 
meaning,  exclaimed  in  low  tones,  apparently  of 
much  anguish,  Hushty  husht,  dherum!  husht, 
husht,  I say — let  me  alone — I will  do  it — will 
you  husht?  I will,  I say — I will — there  now — 
that’s  it — be  quiet,  an’  I will  do  it — be  quiet!  ” 
and  as  she  thus  spoke,  she  turned  her  face  back 
over  her  left  shoulder,  as  if  some  invisible  being 
dogged  her  steps,  and  stood  bending  over  her. 

Gho  manhy  dhea  ghud,  a ban  chohr,  dherhum 
areesht!  the  blessin’  o’  God  on  you,  honest  woman, 
I say  again,”  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  repeating  that 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


249 


sacred  form  of  salutation  with  which  the  peas- 
antry address  each  other.  “ ’Tis  a fine  evenin’, 
honest  w^oman,  glory  be  to  him  that  sent  the  same, 
and  amin!  If  it  was  cowld,  I’d  be  axin’  you  to 
di’aw  your  chair  in  to  the  fire ; but,  any  way,  won’t 
you  sit  down?” 

As  she  ceased  speaking,  the  piercing  eye  of 
the  strange  woman  became  rivetted  on  her  with  a 
glare,  which,  whilst  it  startled  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
seemed  full  of  an  agony  that  ahnost  abstracted 
her  from  external  life.  It  was  not,  however,  so 
wholly  absorbing  as  to  prevent  it  from  expressing 
a marked  interest,  whether  for  good  or  evil,  in 
the  woman  who  addressed  her  so  hospitably. 

“ Husht,  now — husht,”  she  said,  as  if  aside — 
‘‘  husht,  won’t  you — sure  I may  speak  the  thing 
to  her — you  said  it — there  now,  husht!  ” And 
then  fastening  her  dark  eyes  on  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
she  smiled  bitterly  and  mysteriously. 

“ I know  you  well,”  she  said,  without,  however, 
returning  the  blessing  contained  in  the  usual 
reply  to  Mrs.  Sullivan’s  salutation — “ I know  you 
well,  JMary  Sullivan — husht,  now,  husht — yes,  I 
know  you  well,  and  the  power  of  all  that  you 
carry  about  you;  but  you’d  be  better  than  you 
are — and  that’s  well  enough  now — ^if  you  had 
sense  to  know — ah,  ah,  ah! — what’s  this!”  she 
exclaimed  abruptly,  with  three  distinct  shrieks, 
that  seemed  to  be  produced  by  sensations  of 
sharp  and  piercing  agony. 

“ In  the  name  of  goodness,  what’s  over  you, 
honest  woman?”  inquired  Mrs.  Sullivan,  as  she 


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started  from  her  chair,  and  ran  to  her  in  a state 
of  alarm,  bordering  on  terror — “ Is  it  sick  you 
are?  ” 

The  woman’s  face  had  got  haggard,  and  its 
features  distorted;  but  in  a few  minutes  they 
resumed  their  peculiar  expression  of  settled  wild- 
ness and  mystery.  “ Sick!  ” she  replied,  licking 
her  parched  lips,  awirck,  awirck!  look!  look!” 
and  she  pointed  with  a shudder  that  almost  con- 
vulsed her  whole  frame,  to  a lump  that  rose  on 
her  shoulders;  this,  be  it  what  it  might,  was  cov- 
ered with  a red  cloak,  closely  pinned  and  tied 
with  great  caution  about  her  body — “ ’tis  here! — 
I have  it ! ” 

“ Blessed  mother!  ” exclaimed  Mrs.  Sullivan, 
tottering  over  to  her  chair,  as  finished  a picture 
of  horror  as  the  eye  could  witness,  “ this  day’s 
Friday;  the  saints  stand  betwixt  me  an’  all  harm! 
Oh,  holy  Mary,  protect  me!  Nhanim  an  airh/^ 
in  the  name  of  the  Father  &;c.,  and  she  forthwith 
proceeded  to  bless  herself,  which  she  did  thirteen 
times  in  honour  of  the  blessed  virgin  and  the 
twelve  apostles. 

“ Ay,  it’s  as  you  see!  ” replied  the  stranger,  bit- 
terly. “It  is  here — husht,  now — ^husht,  I say — 
I will  say  the  thing  to  her,  mayn’t  I?  Ay,  in- 
deed, Mary  Sullivan,  ’tis  with  me  always — 
always.  Well,  well,  no,  I won’t,  I won’t — easy. 
Oh,  blessed  saints,  easy,  and  I won’t!  ” 

In  the  meantime  Mrs.  Sullivan  had  uncorked 
her  bottle  of  holy  water,  and  plentifully  bedewed 
herself  with  it,  as  a preservative  against  this  mys^ 
terious  woman  and  her  dreadful  secret. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


251 


“ Blessed  mother  above!  ” she  ejaculated,  “ the 
Lianhan  Sheet ''  And  as  she  spoke,  with  the 
holy  water  in  the  palm  of  her  hand,  she  advanced 
cautiously,  and  with  great  terror,  to  throw  it  upon 
the  stranger  and  the  unearthly  thing  she  bore. 

“ Don’t  attempt  it!  ” shouted  the  other,  in  tones 
of  mingled  fierceness  and  terror;  “ do  you  want 
to  give  me  pain  without  keeping  yourself  any- 
thing at  all  safer?  Don’t  you  know  it  doesn’t 
care  about  your  holy  water?  But  I’d  suffer  for 
it,  an’  perhaps  so  would  you.” 

Mrs.  Sullivan,  terrified  by  the  agitated  looks 
of  the  woman,  drew  back  with  affright,  and 
threw  the  holy  water  with  which  she  intended  to 
purify  the  other  on  her  own  person. 

“ Why  thin,  you  lost  crathur,  who  or  what  are 
you  at  all? — don’t,  don’t — for  the  sake  of  all 
the  saints  and  angels  of  heaven,  don’t  come  next 
or  near  me — keep  your  distance — but  what  are 
you,  or  how  did  you  come  to  get  that  ‘ good 
thing  ’ you  carry  about  wid  you?  ” 

“ Ay,  indeed!  ” replied  the  woman  bitterly,  “ as 
if  I would  or  could  tell  you  that!  I say,  you 
woman,  you’re  doing  what’s  not  right  in  asking 
me  a question  you  ought  not  let  to  cross  your 
lips — look  to  yourself,  and  what’s  over  you.” 
The  simple  woman,  thinking  her  meaning  lit- 
eral, almost  leaped  off  her  seat  with  terror,  and 
turned  up  her  eyes  to  ascertain  whether  or  not 
any  dreadful  appearance  had  approached  her,  or 
hung  over  her  where  she  sat. 

“ Woman,”  said  she,  “ I spoke  you  kind  an’ 
fair,  an’  I wish  you  well — but ” 


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“ But  what?  ’’  replied  the  other — and  her  eyes 
kindled  into  deep  and  profound  excitement,  ap- 
parently upon  very  slight  grounds. 

“ Why — ^hem — nothin’  at  all  sure,  only  ” 

‘‘  Only  what?  ” asked  the  stranger,  with  a face 
of  anguish  that  seemed  to  torture  every  feature 
out  of  its  proper  lineaments. 

‘‘  Dacent  woman,”  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  whilst 
the  hair  began  to  stand  with  terror  upon  her  head, 
“ sure  it’s  no  wondher  in  life  that  I’m  in  a per- 
plexity, whin  a Lianhan  Shee  is  undher  the  one 
roof  wid  me.  ’Tisn’t  that  I want  to  know  any- 
thing at  all  about  it — the  dear  forbid  I should; 
but  I never  hard  of  a person  bein’  tormented 
wid  it  as  you  are.  I always  used  to  hear  the 
people  say  that  it  thrated  its  friends  well.” 

“ Husht!  ” said  the  woman,  looking  wildly  over 
her  shoulder,  “I’ll  not  tell:  it’s  on  myself  I’ll 
leave  the  blame!  Why,  will  you  never  pity  me? 
Am  I to  be  night  and  day  tormented?  Oh, 
you’re  wicked  and  cruel  for  no  reason!  ” 

“ Thry,”  said  Mrs.  Sullivan,  “ an’  bless  your- 
self; call  on  God.” 

“ Ah!  ” shouted  the  other,  “ are  you  going  to 
get  me  killed?  ” and  as  she  uttered  the  words,  a 
spasmodic  working  which  must  have  occasioned 
great  pain,  even  to  torture,  became  audible  in 
her  throat:  her  bosom  heaved  up  and  down,  and 
her  head  was  bent  repeatedly  on  her  breast,  as  if 
by  force. 

“ Don’t  mention  that  name,”  said  she,  “ in  my 
presence,  except  you  mean  to  drive  me  to  utter 
distraction.  I mean,”  she  continued,  after  con- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


253 


siderable  effort  to  recover  her  former  tone  and 
manner — “ hear  me  with  attention — I mean, 
woman — you,  Mary  Sullivan — that  if  you  men- 
tion that  holy  name,  you  might  as  well  keep 
plunging  sharp  knives  into  my  heart!  Huslit! 
peace  to  me  for  one  minute,  tormentor!  Spare 
me  something,  I’m  in  your  power!  ” 

“ Will  you  ate  anything?  ” said  Mrs.  Sullivan; 
‘‘  poor  crathur,  you  look  like  hunger  an’  distress; 
there’s  enough  in  the  house,  blessed  he  them  that 
sent  it!  an’  you  had  betther  thry  an’  take  some 
nourishment,  any  way;  ” and  she  raised  her  eyes 
in  a silent  prayer  of  relief  and  ease  for  the  un- 
happy woman,  whose  unhallowed  association  had, 
in  her  opinion,  sealed  her  doom. 

“Will  I?— will  I?— oh!”  she  replied,  “may 
you  nev^r  know  misery  for  offering  it!  Oh, 
bring  me  something — some  refreshment — some 
food — for  I’m  dying  with  hunger.” 

Mrs.  Sullivan,  who,  with  all  her  superstition, 
was  remarkable  for  charity  and  benevolence,  im- 
mediately placed  food  and  drink  before  her, 
which  the  stranger  absolutely  devoured — taking 
care  occasionally  to  secrete  under  the  protuber- 
ance which  appeared  behind  her  neck,  a portion 
of  what  she  ate.  This,  however,  she  did,  not  by 
stealth,  but  openly;  merely  taking  means  to  pre- 
vent the  concealed  thing,  from  being,  by  any 
possible  accident,  discovered. 

When  the  craving  of  hunger  was  satisfied,  she 
appeared  to  suffer  less  from  the  persecution  of 
her  tormentor  than  before;  whether  it  was,  as 
Mrs.  Sullivan  thought,  that  the  food  with  which 


254 


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she  plied  it,  appeased  in  some  degree  its  irritabil- 
ity, or  lessened  that  of  the  stranger,  it  was  diffi- 
cult to  say;  at  all  events,  she  became  more 
composed;  her  eyes  resumed  somewhat  of  a nat- 
ural expression;  each  sharp  ferocious  glare,  which 
shot  from  them  with  such  intense  and  rapid 
flashes,  partially  disappeared;  her  knit  brows 
dilated,  and  part  of  a forehead,  which  had  once 
been  capacious  and  handsome,  lost  the  contrac- 
tions which  deformed  it  by  deep  wrinkles.  Alto- 
gether the  change  was  evident,  and  very  much 
relieved  Mrs.  Sullivan,  who  could  not  avoid  ob- 
serving it. 

“ It’s  not  that  I care  much  about  it,  if  you’d 
think  it  not  right  o’  me,  but  it’s  odd  enough  for 
you  to  keep  the  lower  part  of  your  face  muffled 
up  in  that  black  cloth,  an’  then  your  forehead, 
too,  is  covered  down  on  your  face  a bit?  If 
they’re  part  of  the  bargain/^ — and  she  shud- 
dered at  the  thought — “ between  you  an’  any- 
thing that’s  not  good — hem! — I think  you’d  do 
well  to  throw  thim  off  o’  you,  an’  turn  to  thim 
that  can  protect  you  from  everything  that’s  bad. 
Now  a scapular  would  keep  all  the  divils  in  hell 
from  one;  an’  if  you’d” 

On  looking  at  the  stranger  she  hesitated,  for 
the  wild  expression  of  her  eyes  began  to  return. 

“ Don’t  begin  my  punishment  again,”  replied 
the  woman;  “make  no  alius — don’t  make  men- 
tion in  my  presence  of  anything  that’s  good. 
Husht, — husht — it’s  beginning — easy  now — 
easy!  No,”  said  she,  “ I came  to  tell  you,  that 
only  for  my  breaking  a vow  I made  to  this  thing 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


255 


upon  me,  I’d  be  happy  instead  of  miserable  with 
it.  I say,  it’s  a good  thing  to  have,  if  the  person 
will  use  tliis  bottle,”  she  added,  producing  one, 
“ as  I will  direct  them.” 

“ I wouldn’t  wish,  for  my  part,”  replied  Mrs. 
Sullivan,  “ to  have  any  thing  to  do  wid  it — 
neither  act  nor  part;”  and  she  crossed  herself 
devoutly  on  contemplating  such  an  unholy  alli- 
ance as  that  at  which  her  companion  hinted. 

“ Mary  Sullivan,’^  replied  the  other,  “ I can 
put  good  fortune  and  happiness  in  the  way  of 
you  and  yours.  It  is  for  you  the  good  is  in- 
tended; if  you  don’t  get  both,  no  other  can,”  and 
her  eyes  kindled  as  she  spoke  like  those  of  the 
Pythoness  in  the  moment  of  inspiration. 

Mrs.  Sullivan  looked  at  her  with  awe,  fear,  and 
a strong  mixture  of  curiosity ; she  had  often  heard 
that  the  Lianhan  Shee  had,  through  means  of 
the  person  to  whom  it  was  bound,  conferred 
wealth  upon  several,  although  it  could  never  ren- 
der this  important  service  to  those  who  exercised 
direct  authority  over  it.  She  therefore  experi- 
enced something  like  a conflict  between  her  fears 
and  a love  of  that  wealth,  the  possession  of  which 
was  so  plainly  intimated  to  her. 

“ The  money,”  said  she,  “ would  he  one  thing, 
but  to  have  the  Lianhan  Shee  planted  over  a 
body’s  shouldher — och!  the  saints  preserve  us! — 
no,  not  for  oceans  of  hard  goold  would  I have  it 
in  my  company  one  minnit.  But  in  regard  to 
the  money — hem! — ^why,  if  it  could  be  managed 
widout  havin’  act  or  part  wid  that  thing,  people 
would  do  anything  in  rason  and  fairity.” 


256 


IRELAND 


“You  have  this  day  been  kind  to  me,”  replied 
the  woman,  “ and  that’s  what  I can’t  say  of 
many — dear  help  me! — ^husht!  Every  door  is 
shut  in  my  face!  Does  not  every  cheek  get  pale 
when  I am  seen?  If  I meet  a fellow-creature  on 
the  road,  they  turn  into  the  field  to  avoid  me; 
if  I ask  for  food,  it’s  to  a deaf  ear  I speak;  if  I 
am  thirsty,  they  send  me  to  the  river.  What 
house  would  shelter  me?  In  cold,  in  hunger, 
in  drought,  in  storm,  and  in  tempest,  I am  alone 
and  unfriended,  hated,  feared,  an’  avoided; 
starving  in  the  winter’s  cold,  and  burning  in 
the  summer’s  heat.  All  this  is  my  fate  here; 
and — oh ! oh ! oh ! — have  mercy,  tormentor — 
have  mercy!  I will  not  hft  my  thoughts  there 
— I’ll  keep  the  paction — but  spare  me  now!  ” 

She  turned  round  as  she  spoke,  seeming  to 
follow  an  invisible  object,  or,  perhaps,  attempt- 
ing to  get  a more  complete  view  of  the  mysteri- 
ous being  which  exercised  such  a terrible  and 
painful  influence  over  her.  Mrs.  Sullivan,  also, 
kept  her  eye  fixed  upon  the  lump,  and  actually 
believed  that  she  saw  it  move.  Fear  of  incur- 
ring the  displeasure  of  what  it  contained,  and 
a superstitious  reluctance  harshly  to  thrust  a per- 
son from  her  door  who  had  eaten  of  her  food, 
prevented  her  from  desiring  the  woman  to  de- 
part. 

“ In  the  name  of  Goodness,”  she  replied,  “ I 
will  have  nothing  'to  do  wid  your  gift.  Prov- 
idence, blessed  be  his  name,  has  done  well  for 
me  an’  mine;  an’  it  mightn’t  be  right  to  go  be- 
yant  what  it  has  pleased  him  to  give  me.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


257 


“ A rational  sentiment ! — I mean  there’s  good 
sense  in  what  you  say,”  answered  the  stranger: 
“ but  you  need  not  be  afraid,”  and  she  accom- 
panied the  expression  by  holding  up  the  bottle 
and  kneeling:  “now,”  she  added,  “listen  to  me, 
and  judge  for  yourself,  if  what  I say,  when  I 
swear  it,  can  be  a lie.”  She  then  proceeded  to 
utter  oaths  of  the  most  solenrn  nature,  the  pur- 
port of  which  was  to  assure  Mrs.  Sulhvan  that 
drinking  of  the  bottle  would  be  attended  with 
no  danger. 

“ You  see  this  little  bottle,  drink  it.  Oh,  for 
my  sake  and  your  own,  drink  it;  it  will  give 
wealth  without  end,  to  you,  and  to  all  belong- 
ing to  you.  Take  one-half  of  it  before  sun- 
rise, and  the  other  half  when  he  goes  down. 
You  must  stand  while  drinking  it,  with  your 
face  to  the  east,  in  the  morning;  and  at 
night,  to  the  west.  Will  you  promise  to  do 
this?” 

“ How  would  drinkin’  the  bottle  get  me 
money?  ” inquired  Mrs.  Sullivan,  who  certainly 
felt  a strong  tendency  of  heart  to  the  wealth, 

“ That  I can’t  tell  you  now,  nor  would  you 
understand  it,  even  if  I could ; but  you  will  know 
all  when  what  I say  is  complied  with.” 

“ Keep  your  bottle,  dacent  woman.  I wash 
my  hands  out  of  it:  the  saints  above  guard  me 
from  the  timptation!  I’m  sure  it’s  not  right, 
for  as  I’m  a sinner,  ’tis  gettin’  stronger  every 
minute  widin  me?  Keep  it!  I’m  loth  to  bid 
any  one  that  ett  o’  my  bread  to  go  from 

my  hearth,  but  if  you  go.  I’ll  make  it  worth 
III— 17 


258 


IRELAND 


your  while.  Saints  above,  what’s  cornin’  over 
me.  In  my  whole  life  I never  had  such 
a hankerin’  afther  money!  Well,  well,  but  it’s 
quare  entirely!” 

“ Will  you  drink  it ! ” asked  her  companion. 
‘‘  If  it  does  hurt  or  harm  to  you  or  yours,  or 
anything  but  good,  may  what  is  hanging  over 
me  be  fulfilled  L”  and  she  extended  a thin,  but, 
considering  her  years,  not  ungraceful  arm,  in 
the  act  of  holding  out  the  bottle  to  her  kind 
entertainer. 

“ For  the  sake  of  all  that’s  good  and  gracious 
take  it  without  scruple — ^it  is  not  hurtful,  a 
child  might  drink  every  drop  that’s  in  it.  Oh, 
for  the  sake  of  all  you  love,  and  of  all  that 
love  you,  take  it!”  and  as  she  urged  her,  the 
tears  streamed  down  her  cheeks. 

“ No,  no,”  replied  Mrs.  Sullivan,  “ it’ll  never 
cross  my  lips;  not  if  it  made  me  as  rich  as  ould 
Hendherson,  that  airs  his  guineas  in  the  sun, 
for  fraid  they’d  get  light  by  lyin’  past.” 

“ I entreat  you  to  take  it?  ” said  the  strange 
woman. 

“ Never,  never! — once  for  all — I say,  I won’t; 
so  spare  your  breath.” 

The  firmness  of  the  good  housewife  was  not, 
in  fact,  to  be  shaken;  so,  after  exhausting  all 
the  motives  and  arguments  with  which  she  could 
urge  the  accomplishment  of  her  design,  the 
strange  woman,  having  again  put  the  bottle 
into  her  bosom,  prepared  to  depart. 

She  had  now  once  more  become  calm,  and 
resumed  her  seat  with  the  languid  air  of  one 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


259 


who  has  suffered  much  exhaustion  and  excite- 
ment. She  put  her  hand  upon  her  forehead  for 
a few  moments,  as  if  collecting  her  faculties,  or 
endeavouring  to  remember  the  purport  of  their 
previous  conversation.  A slight  moisture  had 
broken  through  her  skin,  and  altogether,  not- 
withstanding her  avowed  criminality  in  entering 
into  an  unholy  bond,  she  appeared  an  object  of 
deep  compassion. 

In  a moment,  her  manner  changed  again,  and 
her  eyes  blazed  out  once  more,  as  she  asked 
her  alarmed  hostess: — 

“ Again,  Mary  Sullivan,  will  you  take  the 
gift  that  I have  it  in  my  power  to  give  you? 
ay  or  no?  speak,  poor  mortal,  if  you  know  what 
is  for  your  own  good?” 

Mrs.  Sullivan’s  fears,  however,  had  overcome 
her  love  of  money,  particularly  as  she  thought 
that  wealth  obtained  in  such  a manner  could  not 
prosper;  her  only  objection  being  to  the  means 
of  acquiring  it. 

“ Oh!  ” said  the  stranger,  ‘‘  am  I doomed  never 
to  meet  with  any  one  who  will  take  the  promise 
off  me  by  drinking  of  this  bottle.  Oh!  but  I 
am  unhappy!  What  it  is  to  fear — ah!  ah! — and 
keep  Ms  commandments.  Had  I done  so  in  my 
youthful  time,  I wouldn’t  now — ah — merciful 
mother,  is  there  no  relief?  kill  me,  tormentor; 
kill  me  outright,  for  surely  the  pangs  of  eternity 
cannot  be  greater  than  those  you  now  make  me 
suffer.  Woman,”  said  she,  and  her  muscles 
stood  out  in  extraordinary  energy — “ woman, 
Mary  Sullivan — ay,  if  you  should  kill  me — blast 


260 


IRELAND 


me — wKere  I stand,  I will  say  the  word — woman 
— ^you  have  daughters — ^teach  them — to  fear 
— ” Having  got  so  far,  she  stopped — ^her  bosom 
heaved  up  and  down — ^her  frame  shook  dread- 
fully— ^her  eye-balls  became  lurid  and  fiery — 
her  hands  were  clenched,  and  the  spasmodic 
throes  of  inward  convulsion  worked  the  white 
froth  up  to  her  mouth;  at  length  she  suddenly 
became  like  a statue,  with  this  wild  supernatural 
expression  intense  upon  her,  and  with  an  awful 
calmness,  by  far  more  dreadful  than  excitement 
could  be,  concluded  by  pronouncing  in  deep  husky 
tones,  the  name  of  God. 

Having  accomplished  this  with  such  a power- 
ful struggle,  she  turned  round  with  pale  despair 
in  her  countenance  and  manner,  and  with  stream- 
ing eyes  slowly  departed,  leaving  Mrs.  Sullivan 
in  a situation  not  at  all  to  be  envied. 

In  a short  time  the  other  members  of  the 
family,  who  had  been  out  at  their  evening  em- 
ployments, returned.  Bartley,  her  husband, 
having  entered  somewhat  sooner  than  his  three 
daughters  from  milking,  was  the  first  to  come 
in;  presently  the  girls  followed,  and  in  a few 
minutes  they  sat  down  to  supper,  together  with 
the  servants,  who  dropped  in  one  by  one,  after 
the  toil  of  the  day.  On  placing  themselves 
about  the  table,  Bartley  as  usual  took  his  seat 
at  the  head;  but  Mrs.  Sullivan,  instead  of  oc- 
cupying hers,  sat  at  the  fire  in  a state  of  uncom- 
mon agitation.  Every  two  or  three  minutes  she 
would  cross  herself  devoutly,  and  mutter  such 
prayers  against  spiritual  influences  of  an  evil 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  2G1 

nature,  as  she  could  compose  herself  to  remem- 
ber. 

“ Thin,  why  don’t  you  come  to  your  supper, 
]\laiy,”  said  the  husband,  “ while  the  sowans  are 
warm?  Brave  and  thick  they  are  this  night, 
any  way.” 

His  wdfe  was  silent,  for  so  strong  a hold  had 
the  strange  woman  and  her  appalling  secret  upon 
her  mind,  that  it  was  not  till  he  repeated  his 
question  three  or  four  times — raising  his  head 
with  surprise,  and  asking,  “ Eh,  thin  Mary, 
what’s  come  over  you — is  it  unwell  you  are?” 
— that  she  noticed  what  he  said. 

“Supper!”  she  exclaimed,  “unwell!  ’tis  a 
good  right  I have  to  be  unwell, — I hope  nothin’ 
bad  wdll  happen,  any  way.  Feel  my  face,  Nan- 
nie,” she  added,  addressing  one  of  her  daugh- 
ters, “ it’s  as  cowld  an’  wet  as  a lime-stone — 
ay,  an’  if  you  found  me  a corpse  before  you, 
it  wouldn’t  be  at  all  strange.” 

There  was  a general  pause  at  the  seriousness 
of  this  intimation.  The  husband  rose  from  his 
supper,  and  went  up  to  the  hearth  where  she 
sat. 

“Turn  round  to  the  light,”  said  he;  “why, 
Mary  dear,  in  the  name  of  wondher,  what  ails 
you?  for  you’re  like  a corpse  sure  enough. 
Can’t  you  tell  us  what  has  happened,  or  what 
put  you  in  such  a state?  Why,  childhre,  the 
cowld  sweat’s  teemin’  off  her!  ” 

The  poor  woman,  unable  to  sustain  the  shock 
produced  by  her  interview  with  the  stranger, 
found  herself  getting  more  weak,  and  requested 


262 


IRELAND 


a drink  of  water;  but  before  it  could  be  put 
to  her  lips,  she  laid  her  head  upon  the  back 
of  the  chair  and  fainted.  Grief,  and  uproar, 
and  confusion,  followed  this  alarming  incident. 
The  presence  of  mind,  so  necessary  on  such  oc- 
casions, was  wholly  lost;  one  ran  here,  and  an- 
other there,  all  jostling  against  each  other,  with- 
out being  cool  enough  to  render  her  proper  as- 
sistance. The  daughters  were  in  tears,  and 
Rartley  himself  was  dreadfully  shocked  by  see- 
ing his  wife  apparently  lifeless  before  him. 

She  soon  recovered,  however,  and  reheved 
them  from  the  apprehension  of  her  death,  which 
they  thought  had  actually  taken  place. 
“ Mary,”  said  the  husband,  “ something  quare 
entirely  has  happened,  or  you  wouldn’t  be  in  this 
state ! ” 

“ Did  any  of  you  see  a strange  woman  lavin^ 
the  house,  a minute  or  two  before  ye  came  in?  ” 
she  inquired. 

“ No,”  they  replied,  “ not  a stim  of  any  one 
did  we  see.” 

“Wurrah  dheelish!  No? — now  is  it  possible 
ye  didn’t  ? ” She  then  described  her,  but  all  de- 
clared they  had  seen  no  such  person. 

“ Bartley,  whisper,”  said  she,  and  beckoning 
him  over  to  her,  in  few  words  she  revealed  the 
secret.  The  husband  grew  pale  and  crossed  him- 
self. “ Mother  of  Saints!  childhre,”  said  he  “ a 
Lianhan  Shee!^^  The  words  were  no  sooner 
uttered,  than  every  countenance  assumed  the  pal- 
lidness of  death ; and  every  right  hand  was  raised 
in  the  act  of  blessing  the  person,  and  crossing 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


2G3 


the  forehead.  The  Lianhan  Slice!!  all  ex- 
claimed in  fear  and  horror — “ This  day’s  Friday, 
God  betwixt  us  an’  harm!  ” 

It  was  now  after  dusk,  and  the  hour  had 
already  deepened  into  the  darkness  of  a calm, 
moonless,  summer  night;  the  hearth,  therefore, 
in  a short  time,  became  surrounded  by  a circle, 
consisting  of  every  person  in  the  house ; the  door 
was  closed  and  securely  bolted; — a struggle  for 
the  safest  seat  took  place;  and  to  Bartley’s  shame 
be  it  spoken,  he  lodged  himself  on  the  hob  within 
the  jamb,  as  the  most  distant  situation  from 
the  fearful  being  known  as  the  Lianhan  Shee, 
The  recent  terror,  however,  brooded  over  them 
all;  their  topic  of  conversation  was  the  myste- 
rious visit,  of  which  Mrs.  Sullivan  gave  a pain- 
fully accurate  detail;  whilst  every  ear  of  those 
who  composed  her  audience  was  set,  and  every 
single  hair  of  their  heads  bristled  up,  as  if 
awakened  into  distinct  life  by  the  story.  Bartley 
looked  into  the  fire  soberly,  except  when  the  cat, 
in  prowling  about  the  dresser,  electrified  him 
into  a start  of  fear,  wliich  sensation  went  round 
every  link  of  the  living  chain  about  the  hearth. 

The  next  day  the  story  spread  through  the 
whole  neighbourhood,  accumulating  in  interest 
and  incident  as  it  went.  Where  it  received  the 
touches,  embellishments,  and  emendations,  with 
which  it  w^as  amplified,  it  would  be  difficult  to 
say;  every  one  told  it,  forsooth,  exactly  as  he 
heard  it  from  another;  but  indeed  it  is  not  im- 
probable, that  those  through  whom  it  passed, 
were  unconscious  of  the  additions  it  had  received 


264i 


IRELAND 


at  their  hands.  It  is  not  unreasonable  to  sup- 
pose, that  imagination  in  such  cases  often  colours 
highly  without  a premeditated  design  of  false- 
hood. F ear  and  dread,  however,  accompanied  its 
progress;  such  families  as  had  neglected  to  keep 
holy  water  in  their  houses  borrowed  some  from 
their  neighbours ; every  old  prayer  which  had  be- 
come rusty  from  disuse,  was  brightened  up — 
charms  were  hung  about  the  necks  of  cattle — 
and  gospels  about  those  of  children — crosses 
were  placed  over  the  doors  and  windows; — no 
unclean  water  was  thrown  out  before  sun-rise 
or  after  dusk — 

“ E’en  those  prayed  now  who  never  prayed  before, 

And  those  who  always  prayed,  still  prayed  the  more.” 

The  inscrutable  woman  who  caused  such 
general  dismay  in  the  parish,  was  an  object  of 
much  pity.  Avoided,  feared,  and  detested,  she 
could  find  no  rest  for  her  weary  feet,  nor  any 
shelter  for  her  unprotected  head.  If  she  was 
seen  approaching  a house,  the  door  and  windows 
were  immediately  closed  against  her;  if  met  on 
the  way  she  was  avoided  as  a pestilence.  How 
she  lived  no  one  could  tell,  for  none  would  per- 
mit themselves  to  know.  It  was  asserted  that 
she  existed  without  meat  or  drink,  and  that  she 
was  doomed  to  remain  possessed  of  life,  the 
prey  of  hunger  and  thirst,  until  she  could  get 
some  one  weak  enough  to  break  the  spell  by 
drinking  her  hellish  draught,  to  taste  which,  they 
said,  would  be  to  change  places  with  herself, 
and  assume  her  despair  and  misery. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


2G5 


There  had  lived  in  the  country  about  six 
months  before  her  appearance  in  it,  a man  named 
Stephenson.  He  was  unmarried,  and  the  last 
of  his  family.  This  person  led  a solitaiy  and 
secluded  life,  and  exhibited  during  the  last 
years  of  his  existence  strong  symptoms  of  ec- 
centricity, which  for  some  months  before  his 
death,  assumed  a character  of  unquestionable 
derangement.  lie  was  found  one  morning 
hanging  by  a halter  in  his  own  stable,  where 
he  had,  under  the  influence  of  his  malady,  com- 
mitted suicide.  At  this  time  the  public  press 
had  not,  as  now,  familiarised  the  minds  of  the 
people  to  that  dreadful  crime,  and  it  was  con- 
sequently looked  upon  then  with  an  intensity  of 
IioiTor,  of  which  we  can  scarcely  entertain  any 
adequate  notion.  His  farm  remained  unoccu- 
pied, for  while  an  acre  of  land  could  be  obtained 
in  any  other  quarter,  no  man  would  enter  upon 
such  unhallowed  premises.  The  house  was 
locked  up,  and  it  was  currently  reported  that 
Stephenson  and  the  devil  each  night  repeated 
the  hanging  scene  in  the  stable;  and  that  when 
the  former  was  committing  the  “ hopeless  sin,” 
the  halter  slipped  several  times  from  the  beam 
of  the  stable-loft,  when  Satan  came,  in  the  shape 
of  a dark-complexioned  man  with  a hollow 
voice,  and  secured  the  rope  imtil  Stephenson’s 
end  was  accomplished. 

In  this  stable  did  the  wanderer  take  up  her 
residence  at  night;  and  when  we  consider  the 
belief  of  the  people  in  the  night-scenes  which 
were  supposed  to  occur  in  it,  we  need  not  be 


266 


IRELAND 


surprised  at  the  new  feature  of  horror  which 
this  circumstance  superadded  to  her  character. 
Her  presence  and  appearance  in  the  parish  were 
dreadful;  a public  outcry  was  soon  raised 
against  her,  which,  were  it  not  from  fear  of  her 
power  over  their  lives  and  cattle,  might  have 
ended  in  her  death.  None,  however,  had  courage 
to  grapple  with  her,  or  to  attempt  expelling  her 
by  violence,  lest  a signal  vengeance  might  be 
taken  on  any  who  dared  to  injure  a woman  that 
could  call  in  the  terrible  aid  of  the  Lianhan 
Shee, 

In  this  state  of  feeling  they  applied  to  the 
parish  priest,  who,  on  hearing  the  marvellous 
stories  related  concerning  her,  and  on  question- 
ing each  man  closely  upon  his  authority,  could 
perceive,  that,  like  most  other  reports,  they  were 
to  be  traced  principally  to  the  imagination  and 
fears  of  the  people.  He  ascertained,  however, 
enough  from  Bartley  Sullivan  to  justify  a be- 
lief that  there  was  something  certainly  uncom- 
mon about  the  woman;  and  feeing  of  a cold, 
phlegmatic  disposition,  with  some  humour,  he  de- 
sired them  to  go  home,  if  they  were  wise — ^he 
shook  his  head  mysteriously  as  he  spoke — “ and 
do  the  woman  no  injury,  if  they  didn’t  wish  ” — 
and  with  this  abrupt  hint  he  sent  them  about  their 
business. 

This,  however,  did  not  satisfy  them.  In  the 
same  parish  lived  a suspended  priest,  called 
Father  Philip  O’Dallaghy,  who  supported  him- 
self, as  most  of  them  do,  by  curing  certain  dis- 
eases of  the  people — miraculously!  He  had 


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267 


no  other  means  of  subsistence,  nor,  indeed,  did 
he  seem  strongly  devoted  to  life,  or  to  the  pleas- 
ures it  afforded.  He  was  not  addicted  to  those 
intemperate  habits  which  characterise  “ Blessed 
Priests  ” in  general;  spirits  he  never  tasted,  nor 
any  food  that  could  be  termed  a luxury,  or  even 
a comfort.  His  communion  with  the  people  was 
brief,  and  marked  by  a tone  of  severe  contemp- 
tuous misanthropy.  He  seldom  stiired  abroad 
except  during  morning,  or  in  the  evening  twi- 
light, when  he  might  be  seen  gliding  amidst  the 
coming  darkness,  like  a dissatisfied  spirit.  His 
life  was  an  austere  one,  and  his  devotional 
practices  were  said  to  be  of  the  most  remorse- 
ful character.  Such  a man,  in  fact,  was  calcu- 
lated to  hold  a powerful  sway  over  the  prejudices 
and  superstitions  of  the  people.  This  was  true. 
His  power  was  considered  almost  unlimited,  and 
his  life  one  that  would  not  disgrace  the  highest 
saint*  in  the  calendar.  There  were  not  wanting 
some  persons  in  the  parish  who  hinted  that 
Father  Felix  O’Rourke,  the  parish  priest,  was 
himself  rather  reluctant  to  incur  the  displeasure, 
or  challenge  the  power  of  the  Lianhan  Shee,  by 
driving  its  victim  out  of  the  parish.  The  opinion 
of  theses  persons  was,  in  its  distinct  unvarnished 
Ideality,  that  Father  Felix  absolutely  showed  the 
white  feather  on  this  critical  occasion — that  he 
became  shy,  and  begged  leave  to  decline  being  in- 
troduced to  this  intractable  pair — seeming  to 
intimate  that  he  did  not  at  all  relish  adding  them 
to  the  stock  of  his  acquaintances. 

Father  Philip  they  considered  as  a decided  con- 


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trast  to  him  on  this  point.  His  stern  and  severe 
manner,  rugged,  and,  when  occasion  demanded, 
daring,  they  believed  suitable  to  the  qualities  req- 
uisite for  sustaining  such  an  interview.  They 
accordingly  waited  on  him;  and  after  Bartley 
and  his  friends  had  given  as  faithful  a report 
of  the  circumstances  as,  considering  all  things, 
could  be  expected,  he  told  Bartley  he  would  hear 
from  Mrs.  Sullivan’s  own  lips  the  authentic  nar- 
rative. This  was  quite  satisfactory,  and  what 
was  expected  from  him.  As  for  himself,  he  ap- 
peared to  take  no  particular  interest  in  the  mat- 
ter, further  than  that  of  allaying  the  ferment 
and  alarm  which  had  spread  through  the  parish. 

“ Plase  your  Reverence,”  said  Bartley,  “ she 
came  in  to  Mary,  and  she  alone  in  the  house, 
and  for  the  matther  o’  that,  I believe  she  laid 
hands  upon  her,  and  tossed  and  tumbled  the 
crathur,  and  she  but  a sickly  woman,  through  the 
four  corners  of  the  house.  Not  that  Mary  lets 
an  so  much,  for  she’s  afeard;  but  I know  from 
her  way,  when  she  spakes  about  her,  that  it’s 
thruth,  your  Reverence.” 

‘‘  But  didn’t  the  Lianhan  Shee/^  said  one  of 
them,  “ put  a sharp-pointed  knife  to  her  breast, 
wid  a divilish  intintion  of  makin’  her  give  the 
best  of  atin’  ah’  dhrinkin’  the  house  afforded?” 
“ She  got  the  victuals,  to  a sartinty,”  replied 
Bartley,  “ and  ‘ overlooked  ’ my  woman  for  her 
pains;  for  she’s  not  the  picture  of  herself  since.” 
Every  one  now  told  some  magnified  and  ter- 
rible circumstance,  illustrating  the  formidable 
power  of  the  Lianhan  Shee. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


2G9 


When  they  had  finished,  the  sarcastic  lip  of 
the  priest  curled  into  an  expression  of  irony  and 
contempt;  his  brow  which  was  naturally  black 
and  heavy,  darkened;  and  a keen,  but  rather  a 
ferocious-looking  eye  shot  forth  a glance,  which, 
while  it  intimated  disdain  for  those  to  whom  it 
was  directed,  spoke  also  of  a dark  and  troubled 
spirit  in  himself.  The  man  seemed  to  brook 
with  scorn  the  degrading  situation  of  a religious 
quack,  to  which  some  incontrollable  destiny  had 
doomed  him. 

‘‘  I shall  see  your  wife  to-morrow,”  said  he 
to  Bartley;  “ and  after  hearing  the  plain  ac- 
count of  what  happened,  I will  consider  what 
is  best  to  be  done  with  this  dark,  perhaps  un- 
happy,  perhaps  guilty  character;  but  whether 
dark,  or  unhap}3y,  or  guilty,  I,  for  one,  should 
not,  and  will  not,  avoid  her.  Go,  and  bring  me 
word  to-morrow  evening,  when  I can  see  her  on 
the  following  day.  Begone!” 

When  they  withdrew.  Father  Philip  paced  his 
room  for  some  time  in  silence  and  anxiety. 

“Ay,”  said  he,  “infatuated  people!  sunk  in 
superstition  and  ignorance,  yet,  perhaps,  happier 
in  your  degradation  than  those  who,  in  the  pride 
of  knowledge,  can  only  look  back  upon  a life 
of  crime  and  misery.  What  is  a sceptic?  What 
is  an  infidel?  Men  who,  when  they  will  not 
submit  to  moral  restraint,  harden  themselves  into 
scepticism  and  infidelity,  until,  in  the  headlong 
career  of  guilt,  that  which  was  first  adopted  to 
lull  the  outcry  of  conscience,  is  supported  by  the 
pretended  pride  of  principle.  Principle  in  a 


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sceptic!  Hollow  and  devilish  lie!  Would  1 
have  plunged  into  scepticism,  had  I not  first 
violated  the  moral  sanctions  of  religion?  Never. 
I became  an  infidel,  because  I first  became  a 
villain!  Writhing  under  a load  of  guilt,  that 
which  I wished  might  be  true,  I soon  forced  my- 
self to  think  true:  and  now” — he  here  clenched 
his  hands  and  groaned — “ now — ay,  now — and 
hereafter — oh,  that  hereafter!  Why  can  I not 
shake  the  thoughts  of  it  from  my  conscience? 
Religion!  Christianity!  With  all  the  hardness 
of  an  infidel’s  heart,  I feel  your  truth;  because, 
if  every  man  were  the  villain  that  infidelity  would 
make  him,  then  indeed  might  every  man  curse 
God  for  the  existence  bestowed  upon  him — as 
I would,  but  dare  not  do.  Yet  why  can  I not 
believe? — Alas!  why  should  God  accept  an  un- 
repentant heart?  Am  I not  a hypocrite,  mocking 
him  by  a guilty  pretension  to  his  power,  and  lead- 
ing the  dark  into  thicker  darkness?  Then  these 
hands — blood ! — broken  vows — ha ! ha ! ha ! W ell, 
go — let  misery  have  its  laugh,  like  the  light  that 
breaks  from  the  thunder-cloud.  Prefer  Voltaire 
to  Christ;  sow  the  wind,  and  reap  the  whirlwind, 
as  I have  done — ha,  ha,  ha ! Swim,  world — swim 
about  me!  I have  lost  the  ways  of  Providence, 
and  am  dark!  She  awaits  me;  but  I broke  the 
chain  that  galled  us:  yet  it  still  rankles — still 
rankles ! ” 

The  unhappy  man  threw  himself  into  a chair 
in  a paroxysm  of  frenzied  agony.  For  more 
than  an  hour  he  sat  in  the  same  posture,  until 
he  became  gradually  hardened  into  a stiff, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


271 


lethargic  insensibility,  callous  and  impervious  to 
feeling,  reason,  or  religion — an  awful  transition 
from  a visitation  of  conscience  so  terrible  as  that 
which  he  had  just  suffered.  At  length  he  arose, 
and  by  walking  moodily  about,  relapsed  into  his 
usual  gloomy  and  restless  character. 

When  Bartley  went  home,  he  communicated 
to  his  wife  Father  Philip’s  intention  of  calling 
on  the  following  day,  to  hear  a correct  account 
of  the  Lianhan  Shee. 

“ Why,  thin,”  said  she,  “ I’m  glad  of  it,  for  I 
intinded  myself  to  go  to  him,  any  way,  to  get 
my  new  scapular  consecrated.  How-an’-ever,  as 
he’s  to  come.  I’ll  get  a set  of  gospels  for  the 
boys  an’  girls,  an’  he  can  consecrate  all  when 
his  hand’s  in.  Aroon,  Bartley,  they  say  that 
man’s  so  holy  that  he  can  do  anything — ay,  melt 
a body  off  the  face  o’  the  earth,  like  snow  off 
a ditch.  Dear  me,  but  the  power  they  have  is 
strange  all  out!  ” 

“ There’s  no  use  in  gettin’  him  anything  to 
ate  or  dhrink,”  replied  Bartley;  “he  wouldn’t 
take  a glass  o’  whiskey  once  in  seven  years. 
Throth,  myself  thinks  he’s  a little  too  dhry;  sure 
he  might  be  holy  enough,  an’  yet  take  a sup 
of  an  odd  time.  There’s  Father  Felix,  an’ 
though  we  all  know  he’s  far  from  bein’  so  blessed 
a man  as  him,  yet  he  has  friendship  an’  neigh- 
bourhness  in  him,  an’  never  refuses  a glass  in 
rason.” 

“ But  do  you  know  what  I was  tould  about 
Father  Philip,  Bartley?  ” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  that  afther  I hear  it,  Mary,  my 


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woman ; you  won’t  expect  me  to  tell  what  I don’t 
know? — ^ha,  ha,  ha!  ” 

“ Behave,  Bartley,  an’  quit  your  jokin’  now,  at 
all  evints;  keep  it  till  we’re  talkin’  of  somethin’ 
else,  an’  don’t  let  us  be  committin’  sin,  maybe, 
while  we’re  spakin’  of  what  we’re  spakin’  about; 
but  they  say  it’s  as  thrue  as  the  sun  to  the  dial; 
— the  Lent  afore  last  itself  it  was, — he  never 
tasted  mate  or  dhrink  durin’  the  whole  seven 
weeks!  Oh,  you  needn’t  stare!  it’s  well  known 
by  tliim  that  has  as  much  sinse  as  you — no,  not 
so  much  as  you’d  carry  on  the  point  o’  this 
knittin’-needle.  Well,  sure  the  housekeeper  an’ 
the  two  sarvants  wondhered — faix,  they  couldn’t 
do  less — an’  took  it  into  their  heads  to  watch  him 
closely ; an’  what  do  you  think — blessed  be  all  the 
saints  above ! — what  do  you  think  they  seen? 

“The  Goodness  above  knows;  for  me — I 
don’t.  ” 

“ Why,  thin,  whin  he  was  asleep  they  seen  a 
small  silk  thread  in  his  mouth,  that  came  down 
through  the  ceilin’  from  heaven,  an’  he  suckin’ 
it,  just  as  a child  would  his  mother’s  breast  whin 
the  crathur  ’ud  be  asleep:  so  that  was  the  way 
he  was  supported  by  the  angels!  An’  I remim- 
ber  myself,  though  he’s  a dark,  spare,  yallow  man 
at  all  times,  yet  he  never  looked  half  so  fat  an’ 
rosy  as  he  did  the  same  Lent!  ” 

“ Glory  be  to  Heaven!  Well,  well — it  is 
sthrange  the  power  they  have!  As  for  him,  I’d 
as  lee  meet  St.  P ether,  or  St.  Pathrick  himself, 
as  him;  for  one  can’t  but  fear  him,  somehow.” 

“ Fear  him!  Och,  it  ’ud  be  the  pity  o’  thim 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


273 


that  ’ud  do  anything  to  vex  or  anger  that  man. 
Why,  his  very  look  ’ud  Avither  thim,  till  there 
wouldn’t  be  the  thrack^“  o’  thim  on  the  earth; 
an’  as  for  his  curse,  why  it  ’ud  scorch  thim  to 
ashes ! ” 

As  it  was  generally  known  that  Father  Philip 
was  to  visit  Mrs.  Sullivan  the  next  day,  in  or- 
der to  hear  an  account  of  the  mystery  which  filled 
the  parish  with  such  fear,  a very  great  number 
of  the  parishioners  were  assembled  in  and  about 
Bartley’s  long  before  he  made  his  appearance. 
At  length  he  was  seen  walking  slowly  down  the 
road,  with  an  open  book  in  his  hand,  on  the  pages 
of  which  he  looked  from  time  to  time.  When 
he  approached  the  house,  those  who  were  stand- 
ing about  it  assembled  in  a body,  and,  with  one 
consent,  uncovered  their  heads,  and  asked  his 
blessing.  His  appearance  bespoke  a mind  ill  at 
ease;  his  face  was  haggard,  and  his  eyes  blood- 
shot. On  seeing  the  people  kneel,  he  smiled  with 
his  usual  bitterness,  and,  shaking  his  hand  with 
an  air  of  impatience  over  them,  muttered  some 
words,  rather  in  mockery  of  the  ceremony  than 
otherwise.  They  then  rose,  and  blessing  them- 
selves, put  on  their  hats,  rubbed  the  dust  off  their 
knees,  and  appeared  to  think  themselves  recruited 
by  a peculiar  accession  of  grace. 

On  entering  the  house  the  same  form  was  re- 
peated ; and  when  it  was  over,  the  best  chair  was 
placed  for  him  by  Mary’s  own  hands,  and  the 
fire  stirred  up,  and  a line  of  respect  drawn, 
within  which  none  was  to  intrude,  lest  he  might 
feel  in  any  degree  incommoded. 

Ill— 18 


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“ My  good  neighbour,”  said  he  to  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van, “ what  strange  woman  is  this,  who  has 
thrown  the  parish  into  such  a ferment?  I’m 
told  she  paid  you  a visit?  Pray  sit  down.” 

“ I humbly  thank  your  Reverence,”  said  Mary, 
curtseying  lowly,  “ but  I’d  rather  not  sit.  Sir, 
if  you  plase.  I hope  I know  what  respect 
manes,  your  Reverence.  Barny  Bradagh,  I’ll 
thank  you  to  stand  up,  if  you  plase,  an’  his 
Reverence  to  the  fore,  Barny.” 

‘‘I  ax  your  Reverence’s  pardon,  an’  yours, 
too,  Mrs.  Sullivan:  sure  we  didn’t  mane  the  dis- 
respect, any  how.  Sir,  plase  your  Reverence.” 

“ About  this  woman,  and  the  Lianhan  Shee? 
said  the  priest,  without  noticing  Barny ’s 
apology.  “ Pray  what  do  you  precisely  under- 
stand by  a Lianhan  Shee?  " 

“ Why,  Sir,”  replied  Mary,  “ some  sthrange 
bein’  from  the  good  people,  or  fairies,  that  sticks 
to  some  persons.  There’s  a bargain.  Sir,  your 
Reverence,  made  atween  thim;  an’  the  divil.  Sir, 
that  is,  the  ould  boy — ^the  saints  about  us! — ^has 
a hand  in  it.  The  Lianhan  Shee,  your  Rever- 
ence, is  never  seen  only  by  thim  it  keeps  wid; 
but — hem! — it  always,  wid  the  help  of  the  ould 
boy,  conthrives.  Sir,  to  make  the  person  brake 
the  agreement,  an’  thin  it  has  thim  in  its  power; 
but  if  they  donH  brake  the  agreement,  thin  ifs 
in  their  power.  If  they  can  get  any  body  to 
put  in  their  place,  they  may  get  out  o’  the  bar- 
gain; for  they  can,  of  a sartainty,  give  oceans 
o’  money  to  people,  but  can’t  take  any  themselves, 
plase  your  Reverence.  But  sure,  where’s  the 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


275 


use  o’  me  to  be  tellin’  your  Reverence  what  you 
know  betther  nor  myself? — an’  why  shouldn’t 
you,  or  any  one  that  has  the  power  you  have?  ” 

He  smiled  again  at  this  in  his  own  peculiar 
manner,  and  was  proceeding  to  inquire  more  par- 
ticularly into  the  nature  of  the  interview  between 
them,  when  the  noise  of  feet,  and  sounds  of 
general  alarm,  accompanied  by  a rush  of  people 
into  the  house,  arrested  his  attention,  and  he 
hastily  inquired  into  the  cause  of  the  commotion. 
Before  he  could  receive  a reply,  however,  the 
house  w^as  almost  crowded;  and  it  was  not  with- 
out considerable  difficulty  that,  by  the  exertions 
of  Mrs.  Sullivan  and  Bartley,  sufficient  order 
and  quiet  were  obtained  to  hear  distinctly  what 
was  said. 

“ Plase  your  Reverence,”  said  several  voices 
at  once,  “ they’re  cornin’,  hot-foot,  into  the  very 
house  to  us!  Was  ever  the  likes  seen!  an’  they 
must  know  right  well.  Sir,  that  you’re  widin  in 
it.” 

“ Who  are  coming?  ” he  inquired. 

“ Why  the  woman.  Sir  an’  her  good  pet,  the 
Lianhan  Shee,  your  Reverence.” 

“ Well,”  said  he,  “ but  why  should  you  all  ap- 
pear so  blanched  with  terror?  Let  her  come  in, 
and  we  shall  see  how  far  she  is  capable  of  in- 
juring her  fellow-creatures:  some  maniac,”  he 
muttered,  in  a low  soliloquy,  “ whom  the  villany 
of  the  world  has  driven  into  derangement — some 

victim  to  a hand  like  m . Well,  they  say 

there  is  a Providence,  yet  such  things  are  per- 
mitted ! ” 


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“ He’s  sayin’  a prayer  now,”  observed  one  of 
them ; “ haven’t  we  a good  right  to  be  thankful 
that  he’s  in  the  place  wid  us  while  she’s  in  it, 
or  dear  knows  what  harm  she  might  do  us — 
maybe  rise  the  wind!  ” 

As  the  latter  speaker  concluded,  there  was  a 
dead  silence.  The  persons  about  the  door 
crushed  each  other  backwards,  their  feet  set  out 
before  them,  and  their  shoulders  laid  with  violent 
pressure  against  those  who  stood  behind,  for 
each  felt  anxious  to  avoid  all  danger  of  contact 
with  a being  against  whose  power  even  a blessed 
priest  found  it  necessary  to  guard  himself  by  a 
prayer. 

At  length  a low  murmur  ran  among  the 
people — “Father  O’Rourke! — there’s  Father 

O’Rourke! — he  has  turned  the  corner  after  her, 
an’  they’re  both  cornin’  in.”  Immediately  they 
entered,  but  it  was  quite  evident  from  the  man- 
ner of  the  worthy  priest,  that  he  was  unac- 
quainted with  the  person  of  this  singular  being. 
When  they  crossed  the  threshold,  the  priest  ad- 
vanced, and  expressed  his  surprise  at  the  throng 
of  people  assenibled. 

“ Plase  your  Reverence,”  said  Bartley,  “ thafs 
the  woman,”  nodding  significantly  towards  her 
as  he  spoke,  but  without  looking  at  her  person, 
lest  the  evil  eye  he  dreaded  so  much  might  meet 
his,  and  give  him  “ the  blast.” 

The  dreaded  female,  on  seeing  the  house  in 
such  a crowded  state,  started,  paused,  and 
glanced  with  some  terror  at  the  persons  assem- 
bled. Her  dress  was  not  altered  since  her  last 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


277 


visit;  but  her  countenance,  though  more  meagre 
and  emaciated,  expressed  but  little  of  the  un- 
settled energj^  which  then  flashed  from  her  eyes, 
and  distorted  her  features  by  the  depth  of  that 
mysterious  excitement  by  which  she  had  been 
agitated.  Her  countenance  was  still  muffled  as 
before,  the  awful  protuberance  rose  from  her 
shoulders,  and  the  same  band  which  Mrs.  Sulli- 
van had  alluded  to  during  their  interview,  was 
bound  about  the  upper  part  of  her  forehead. 

She  had  already  stood  upwards  of  two  minutes, 
during  which  the  fall  of  a feather  might  be 
heard,  yet  none  bade  God  bless  her — no  kind 
hand  was  extended  to  greet  her — no  heart 
warmed  in  affection  towards  her;  on  the  con- 
trary, every  eye  glanced  at  her,  as  a being 
marked  with  enmity  towards  God.  Blanched 
faces  and  knit  brows,  the  signs  of  fear  and 
hatred,  were  turned  upon  her;  her  breath  was 
considered  pestilential,  and  her  touch  paralysis. 
There  she  stood,  proscribed,  avoided,  and  hunted 
like  a tigress,  all  fearing  to  encounter,  yet  wish- 
ing to  exterminate  her!  Who  could  she  be? — 
or  what  had  she  done,  that  the  finger  of  the  Al- 
mighty marked  her  out  for  such  a fearful  weight 
of  vengeance? 

Father  Philip  rose  and  advanced  a few  steps, 
until  he  stood  confronting  her.  His  person  was 
tall,  his  features  dark,  severe,  and  solemn:  and 
when  the  nature  of  the  investigation  about  to 
take  place  is  considered,  it  need  not  be  wondered 
at,  that  the  moment  was,  to  those  present,  one  of 
deep  and  impressive  interest — such  as  a visible 


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conflict  between  a supposed  champion  of  God  and 
a supernatural  being  was  calculated  to  excite. 

“ Woman/’  said  he,  in  his  deep  stern  voice, 
‘‘tell  me  who  and  what  you  are,  and  why  you 
assume  a character  of  such  a repulsive  and  mys- 
terious nature,  when  it  can  entail  only  misery, 
shame,  and  persecution  on  yourself?  I conjure 
you,  in  the  name  of  Him  after  whose  image 
you  are  created,  to  speak  truly?  ” 

He  paused,  and  the  tall  figure  stood  mute 
before  him.  The  silence  was  dead  as  death — 
every  breath  was  hushed — and  the  persons  as- 
sembled stood  immoveable  as  statues!  Still  she 
spoke  not;  but  the  violent  heaving  of  her  breast 
evinced  the  internal  working  of  some  dreadful 
struggle.  Her  face  before  was  pale — it  was 
now  ghastly;  her  lips  became  blue,  and  her  eyes 
wacant. 

“Speak!”  said  he,  “I  conjure  you  in  the 
name  of  the  power  by  whom  you  live!  ” 

It  is  probable  that  the  agitation  under  which 
she  laboured  was  produced  by  the  severe  effort 
made  to  sustain  the  unexpected  trial  she  had  to 
undergo. 

For  some  minutes  her  struggle  continued;  but 
having  begun  at  its  highest  pitch,  it  gradually 
subsided  until  it  settled  in  a calnmess  which  ap- 
peared fixed  and  awful  as  the  resolution  of  des- 
pair. With  breathless  composure  she  turned 
round,  and  put  back  that  part  of  her  dress  which 
concealed  her  face,  except  the  band  on  her  fore- 
head, which  she  did  not  remove;  having  done 
this,  she  turned  again,  and  walked  calmly  to- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


279 


wards  Father  Philip,  with  a deadly  smile  upon 
her  thin  lips.  When  within  a step  of  where  he 
stood,  she  paused,  and  rivetting  her  eyes  upon 
him,  exclaimed — 

“Who  and  what  am  I?  The  victim  of  in- 
fidelity and  you,  the  bearer  of  a cursed  existence, 
the  scoff  and  scorn  of  the  world,  the  monument  of 
a broken  vow  and  a guilty  life,  a being  scourged 
by  the  scorpion  lash  of  conscience,  blasted  by 
periodical  insanity,  pelted  by  the  winter’s  storm, 
scorched  by  the  summer’s  heat,  withered  by 
starvation,  hated  by  man,  and  touched  into  my 
inmost  spirit  by  the  anticipated  tortures  of 
future  misery.  I have  no  rest  for  the  sole  of 
my  foot,  no  repose  for  a head  distracted  by  the 
contemplation  of  a guilty  life;  I am  the  unclean 
spirit  which  walketh  to  seek  rest  and  findeth 
none;  I am — what  you  have  made  me!  Behold,” 
she  added,  holding  up  the  bottle,  “ this  failed, 
and  I live  to  accuse  you.  But  no,  you  are  my 
husband — though  our  union  was  but  a guilty 
form,  and  I will  burv  that  in  silence.  You 
thought  me  dead,  and  you  flew  to  avoid  punish- 
ment— did  you  avoid  it?  No;  the  finger  of  God 
has  written  pain  and  punishment  upon  your 
brow.  I have  been  in  all  characters,  in  all  shapes, 
have  spoken  with  the  tongue  of  a peasant,  moved 
in  my  natural  sphere ; but  my  knees  were 
smitten,  my  brain  stricken,  and  the  wild  malady 
which  banishes  me  from  society  has  been  upon 
me  for  years.  Such  I am,  and  such  I say,  have 
you  made  me.  As  for  you,  kind-hearted  woman, 
there  was  nothing  in  this  bottle  but  pure  water. 


280 


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The  interval  of  reason  returned  this  day,  and 
having  remembered  ghmpses  of  our  conversation, 
I came  to  apologise  to  you,  and  to  explain  the 
nature  of  my  unhappy  distemper,  and  to  beg  a 
little  bread,  which  I have  not  tasted  for  two 
days.  I at  times  conceive  myself  attended  by  an 
evil  spirit,  shaped  out  by  a guilty  conscience, 
and  this  is  the  only  familiar  which  attends  me, 
and  by  it  I have  been  dogged  into  madness 
through  every  turning  of  life.  Whilst  it  lasts 
I am  subject  to  spasms  and  convulsive  starts 
which  are  exceedingly  painful.  The  lump  on  my 
back  is  the  robe  I wore  when  innocent  in  my 
peaceful  convent.’’ 

The  intensity  of  general  interest  was  now 
transferred  to  Father  Philip;  every  face  was 
turned  towards  him,  but  he  cared  not.  A solemn 
stillness  yet  prevailed  among  all  present.  From 
the  moment  she  spoke,  her  eye  drew  his  with  the 
power  of  a basilisk.  His  pale  face  became  like 
marble,  not  a muscle  moved ; and  when  she  ceased 
speaking,  his  blood-shot  eyes  were  stiU  fixed  upon 
her  countenance  with  a gloomy  calmness  like  that 
which  precedes  a tempest.  They  stood  before 
each  other,  dreadful  counterparts  in  guilt,  for 
truly  his  spirit  was  as  dark  as  hers. 

At  length  he  glanced  angrily  around  him: — 
“ Well,”  said  he,  “ what  is  it  now,  ye  poor  in- 
fatuated wretches,  to  trust  in  the  sanctity  of 
man?  Learn  from  me  to  place  the  same  con- 
fidence in  God  which  you  place  in  his  guilty  crea- 
tures^ and  you  will  not  lean  on  a broken  reed. 
Father  O’Rourke,  you,  too,  witness  my  disgrace. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


281 


but  not  my  punishment.  It  is  pleasant,  no  doubt, 
to  have  a topic  for  conversation  at  your  Con- 
ferences; enjoy  it.  As  for  you,  Margaret,  if 
society  lessen  misery,  we  may  be  less  miserable. 
But  the  band  of  your  order,  and  the  remem- 
brance of  your  vow  is  on  your  forehead,  like 
the  mark  of  Cain — tear  it  off,  and  let  it  not  blast 
a man  who  is  the  victim  of  prejudice  still,  nay 
of  superstition,  as  well  as  of  guilt;  tear  it  from 
my  sight.”  His  eyes  kindled  fearfully  as  he  at- 
tempted to  pull  it  away  by  force. 

She  calmly  took  it  off,  and  he  immediately  tore 
it  into  pieces,  and  stamped  upon  the  fragments 
as  he  flung  them  on  the  ground. 

“ Come,”  said  the  despairing  man — “ come — 
there  is  a shelter  for  you,  but  no  'peace! — food, 
and  drink,  and  raiment,  but  no  peace! — no 
pilvce!  ” As  he  uttered  these  words,  in  a voice 
that  sank  to  its  deepest  pitch,  he  took  her  hand, 
and  they  both  departed  to  his  own  residence. 

The  amazement  and  horror  of  those  who  were 
assembled  in  Bartley’s  house  cannot  be  described. 
Our  readers  may  be  assured  that  they  deepened 
in  character  as  they  spread  through  the  parish. 
An  undefined  fear  of  this  mysterious  pair  seized 
upon  the  people,  for  their  images  were  asso- 
ciated in  their  minds  with  darkness  and  crime, 
and  supernatural  communion.  The  departing 
words  of  Father  Philip  rang  in  their  ears:  they 
trembled,  and  devoutly  crossed  themselves,  as 
fancy  again  repeated  the  awful  exclamation  of 
the  priest — “ No  peace!  no  peace!  ” 

When  Father  Philip  and  his  unhappy  asso- 


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date  went  home,  he  instantly  made  her  a sur- 
render of  his  small  property;  but  with  difficulty 
did  he  command  sufficient  calmness  to  accomplish 
even  this.  He  was  distracted — ^his  blood  seemed  to 
have  been  turned  to  fire — ^he  clenched  his  hands, 
and  he  gnashed  his  teeth,  and  exhibited  the  wild- 
est symptoms  of  madness.  About  ten  o’clock  he 
desired  fuel  for  a large  fire  to  be  brought  into 
the  kitchen,  and  got  a strong  cord,  which  he 
coiled,  and  threw  carelessly  on  the  table.  The 
family  were  then  ordered  to  bed.  About  eleven 
they  were  all  asleep;  and  at  the  solemn  hour  of 
twelve  he  heaped  additional  fuel  upon  the  hving 
turf,  until  the  blaze  shone  with  scorching  light 
upon  everything  around.  Dark  and  desolating 
was  the  tempest  within  him,  as  he  paced,  with 
agitated  steps,  before  the  crackling  fire. 

“She  is  risen!”  he  exclaimed — “the  spectre 
of  all  my  crimes  is  risen  to  haunt  me  through  life! 
I am  a murderer — yet  she  lives,  and  my  guilt  is 
not  the  less!  The  stamp  of  eternal  infamy  is 
upon  me — the  finger  of  scorn  will  mark  me  out — 
the  tongue  of  reproach  will  sting  me  hke  that 
of  the  serpent — the  deadly  touch  of  shame  will 
cover  me  hke  a leper — the  laws  of  society  will 
crush  the  murderer,  not  the  less  that  his  wicked- 
ness in  blood  has  miscarried:  after  that  comes  the 
black  and  terrible  tribunal  of  the  Almighty’s 
vengeance — of  his  fiery  indignation!  Hush! — 
What  sounds  are  those?  They  deepen — they 
deepen!  Is  it  thunder?  It  cannot  be  the  crack- 
ling of  the  blaze!  It  is  thunder! — but  it  speaks 
only  to  my  ear!  Hush! — Great  God,  there  is  a 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


283 


change  in  my  voice!  It  is  hollow  and  super- 
natural! Could  a change  have  come  over  me? 

Am  I living?  Could  I have Hah! — Could 

I have  departed?  and  am  I now  at  length  given 
over  to  the  worm  that  never  dies?  If  it  be  at  my 
heart,  I may  feel  it.  God! — I am  damned! 
Here  is  a viper  twined  about  my  limbs,  trying  to 
dart  its  fangs  into  my  heart!  Hah! — there  are 
feet  pacing  in  the  room,  too,  and  I hear  voices! 
I am  surrounded  by  evil  spirits!  Who’s  there? 
— ^What  are  you? — Speak! — They  are  silent! — 
There  is  no  answer!  Again  comes  the  thunder! 
But  perchance  this  is  not  my  place  of  punish- 
ment, and  I will  try  to  leave  these  horrible 
spirits!” 

He  opened  the  door,  and  passed  out  into  a 
small  green  field  that  lay  behind  the  house.  The 
night  was  calm,  and  the  silence  profound  as 
death.  Not  a cloud  obscured  the  heavens; — the 
light  of  the  moon  fell  upon  the  stillness  of  the 
scene  around  him,  with  all  the  touching  beauty 
of  a moonlit  midnight  in  summer.  Here  he 
paused  a moment,  felt  his  brow,  then  his  heart, 
the  palpitations  of  which  fell  audibly  upon  his 
ear.  He  became  somewhat  cooler;  the  images 
of  madness  which  had  swept  through  his  stormy 
brain  disappeared,  and  were  succeeded  by  a 
lethargic  vacancy  of  thought,  which  almost  de- 
prived him  of  the  consciousness  of  his  own  iden- 
tity. From  the  green  field  he  descended  me- 
chanically to  a little  glen  which  opened  beside  it. 
It  was  one  of  those  delightful  spots  to  which  the 
heart  clingeth.  Its  sloping  sides  were  clothed 


284 


IRELAND 


with  patches  of  wood,  on  the  leaves  of  which  the 
moonlight  glanced  with  a soft  lustre,  rendered 
more  beautiful  by  their  stillness.  That  side  on 
which  the  light  could  not  fall,  lay  in  deep  shadow, 
which  occasionally  gave  to  the  rocks  and  small 
projecting  precipices  an  appearance  of  mon- 
strous and  unnatural  life.  Having  passed 
through  the  tangled  mazes  of  the  glen,  he  at 
length  reached  its  bottom,  along  which  ran  a 
brook,  such  as  in  the  description  of  the  poet, — 

**  In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

Unto  the  sleeping  woods  all  night, 

Singeth  a quiet  tune.” 

Here  he  stood,  and  looked  upon  the  green  wind- 
ing margin  of  the  streamlet — but  its  song  he 
heard  not.  With  the  workings  of  a guilty  con- 
science, the  beautiful  in  nature  can  have  no  asso- 
ciation. He  looked  up  the  glen,  but  its  pictur- 
esque windings,  soft  vistas,  and  wild  underwood 
minghng  with  gray  rocks  and  taller  trees,  all 
mellowed  by  the  moon-beams,  had  no  charms  for 
him.  He  maintained  a profound  silence — but  it 
was  not  the  silence  of  peace  or  reflection.  He 
endeavoured  to  recall  the  scenes  of  the  past  day, 
but  could  not  bring  them  back  to  his  memory. 
Even  the  fiery  tide  of  thought,  which,  like  burn- 
ing lava,  seared  his  brain  a few  moments  before, 
was  now  cold  and  hardened.  He  could  remem- 
ber nothing.  The  convulsion,  of  his  mind  was 
over,  and  his  faculties  were  impotent  and  col- 
lapsed. 

In  this  state  he  unconsciously  retraced  his 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


285 


steps,  and  had  again  reached  the  paddock  ad- 
joining his  house,  when,  as  he  thought,  the  figure 
of  his  paramour  stood  before  him.  In  a moment 
his  former  paroxysm  returned,  and  with  it  the 
gloomy  images  of  a guilty  mind,  charged  with 
the  extravagant  horrors  of  brain-struck  madness. 

“What!”  he  exclaimed,  “the  band  still  on 
your  forehead!  Tear  it  off!” 

He  caught  at  the  form  as  he  spoke,  but  there 
was  no  resistance  to  his  grasp.  On  looking  again 
towards  the  spot  it  had  ceased  to  be  visible.  The 
storm  within  him  arose  once  more;  he  rushed 
into  the  kitchen,  where  the  fire  blazed  out  with 
fiercer  heat;  again  he  imagined  that  the  thunder 
came  to  his  ears,  but  the  thunderings  which  he 
heard  were  only  the  voice  of  conscience.  Again 
his  own  footsteps  and  his  voice  sounded  in  his 
fancy  as  the  footsteps  and  voices  of  fiends,  with 
which  his  imagination  peopled  the  room.  His 
state  and  his  existence  seemed  to  him  a confused 
and  troubled  dream ; he  tore  his  hair — threw  it  on 
the  table — and  immediately  started  back  with  a 
hollow  groan;  for  his  locks,  which  but  a few 
hours  before  had  been  as  black  as  the  raven’s 
wing,  were  now  white  as  snow! 

On  discovering  this,  he  gave  a low  but  frantic 
laugh.  “Ha,  ha,  ha!”  he  exclaimed;  “here  is 
another  mark — here  is  food  for  despair. 
Silently,  but  surely,  did  the  hand  of  God  work 
this,  as  a proof  that  I am  hopeless!  But  I will 
bear  it;  I will  bear  the  sight!  I now  feel  myself 
a main  blasted  by  the  eye  of  God  himself!  Ha, 
ha,  ha!  Food  for  despair!  Food  for  despair!  ” 


286 


IRELAND 


Immediately  he  passed  into  his  own  room,  and 
approaching  the  looking-glass  beheld  a sight 
calculated  to  move  a statue.  His  hair  had  be- 
come literally  white,  but  the  shades  of  his  dark 
complexion,  now  distorted  by  terror  and  madness, 
flitted,  as  his  features  worked  under  the  influ- 
ence of  his  tremendous  passions,  into  an  expres- 
sion so  frightful,  that  deep  fear  came  over  him- 
self. He  snatched  one  of  his  razors,  and  fled 
from  the  glass  to  the  kitchen.  He  looked  upon 
the  fire,  and  saw  the  white  ashes  lying  around  its 
edge. 

“ Ha!  ” said  he,  “ the  hght  is  come!  I see  the 
sign.  I am  directed,  and  I will  follow  it.  There 
is  yet  ONE  hope.  The  immolation!  I shall  be 
saved,  yet  so  as  by  fire.  It  is  for  this  my  hair 
has  become  white; — the  sublime  warning  for  my 
self-sacrifice!  The  colour  of  ashes! — white — 
white ! It  is  so ! — I will  sacrifice  my  body  in  ma- 
terial fire,  to  save  my  soul  from  that  which  is 
eternal!  But  I had  anticipated  the  Sign.  The 
self-sacrifice  is  accepted!  ” 

We  must  here  draw  a veil  over  that  which  en- 
sued, as  the  description  of  it  would  be  both  un- 
natural and  revolting.  Let  it  be  sufficient  to 
say,  that  the  next  morning  he  was  found  burned 
to  a cinder,  with  the  exception  of  his  feet  and 
legs,  which  remained  as  monuments  of,  perhaps, 
the  most  dreadful  suicide  that  ever  was  committed 
by  man.  His  razor,  too,  was  found  bloody,  and 
several  clots  of  gore  were  discovered  about  the 
hearth;  from  which  circumstances  it  was  plain 
that  he  had  reduced  his  strength  so  much  by  loss 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


287 


of  blood,  that  when  he  committed  himself  to  the 
flames,  he  was  unable,  even  had  he  been  willing, 
to  avoid  the  flery  and  awful  sacriflce  of  which  lie 
made  himself  the  victim.  If  anything  could 
deepen  the  impression  of  fear  and  awe,  already 
so  general  among  the  people,  it  was  the  unparal- 
leled nature  of  his  death.  Its  circumstances  are 
yet  remembered  in  the  parish  and  county  wherein 
it  occurred — for  it  is  no  fiction^  gentle  reader! 
and  the  titular  bishop  who  then  presided  over  the 
diocese,  declared,  that  while  he  lived,  no  person 
bearing  the  unliappy  man’s  name  should  ever  be 
admitted  to  the  clerical  order. 

The  shock  produced  by  his  death  struck  the 
miserable  woman  into  the  utter  darkness  of 
settled  derangement.  She  survived  him  some 
years,  but  wandered  about  through  the  province, 
still,  according  to  the  superstitious  belief  of  the 
people,  tormented  by  the  terrible  enmity  of  the 
Lianhan  Shee. 


GOING  TO  MAYNOOTH. 


Young  Denis  O’Shaughnessy  was  old 
Denis’s  son;  and  old  Denis,  like  many  great 
men  before  him,  was  the  son  of  his  father  and 
mother  in  particular,  and  of  a long  line  of  re- 
spectable ancestors  in  general.  He  was,  more- 
over, a great  historian,  a perplexing  controversi- 
alist, deeply  read  in  Dr.  Gallagher  and  Pastorini, 
and  equally  profound  in  the  history  of  Harry 
the  Eighth,  and  Luther’s  partnership  with  the 
devil.  Denis  was  a tall  man,  who  from  his  pecul- 
iar appearance,  and  the  nature  of  his  dress,  a 
light  drab-coloured  frieze,  was  nicknamed  the 
Walking  Pigeon-house;  and  truly  on  seeing  him 
at  a distance,  a man  might  naturally  enough  hit 
upon  a worse  comparison.  He  was  quite 
straight,  carried  both  arms  hanging  by  his  sides, 
motionless  and  at  their  full  length,  hke  the  pen- 
dulums of  a clock  that  has  ceased  going.  In  his 
head,  neck,  and  chest  there  was  no  muscular 
action  visible;  he  walked,  in  fact,  as  if  a milk-pail 
were  upon  his  crown,  or  as  if  a single  nod  of  his 
would  put  the  planets  out  of  order.  But  the 
principal  cause  of  the  similarity  lay  in  his  round- 
ness, which  resembled  that  of  a pump,  running 
to  a point,  or  the  pigeon-house  aforesaid,  which  is 
still  better. 

Denis,  though  a large  man,  was  but  a small 
288 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


289 


farmer,  for  he  rented  only  eighteen  acres  of  good 
land.  His  family,  however,  like  himself,  was 
large,  consisting  of  thirteen  children,  among 
whom  Denis  Junior  stood  pre-eminent.  Idke 
old  Denis,  he  was  exceedingly  long-winded  in 
argument,  pedantic  as  the  schoolmaster  who 
taught  him,  and  capable  of  taking  a very  com- 
prehensive grasp  of  any  tangible  subject. 

Young  Denis’s  display  of  controversial  talents 
was  so  remarkably  precocious,  that  he  contro- 
verted his  father’s  statements  upon  all  possible 
subjects,  with  a freedom  from  embarrassment 
which  promised  well  for  that  most  distinguished 
trait  in  a controversialist — hardihood  of  counte- 
nance. This  delighted  old  Denis  to  the  finger 
ends. 

“ Dinny,  if  he’s  spared,”  he  would  say,  “ will 
be  a credit  to  us  all  yet.  The  sorra  one  of  him 
hut’s  as  manly  as  anything,  and  as  long-headed 
as  a four-footed  baste,  so  he  is!  Nothing  daunts 
or  dashes  him,  or  puts  him  to  an  amplush:  but 
he’ll  look  you  in  the  face  so  stout  an’  cute,  an’ 
never  redden  or  stumble,  whether  he’s  right  or 
wrong,  that  it  does  one’s  heart  good  to  see  him. 
Then  he  has  such  a laning  to  it,  you  see,  that  the 
crathur  ’ud  ground  an  argument  on  any  thing, 
thin  draw  it  out  to  a norration  an’  make  it  as  clear 
as  rock-water,  besides  insensing  you  so  well  into 
the  rason  of  the  thing,  that  Father  Finnerty  him- 
self ’ud  hardly  do  it  betther  from  the  althar.” 

The  highest  object  of  an  Irish  peasant’s  am- 
bition is  to  see  his  son  a priest.  Whenever  a 

farmer  happens  to  have  a large  family,  he 
III— 19 


290 


IRELAND 


usually  destines  one  of  them  for  the  church,  if 
his  circumstances  are  at  all  such  as  can  enable 
him  to  afford  the  boy  a proper  education.  This 
youth  becomes  the  centre  in  which  all  the  affec- 
tions of  the  family  meet.  He  is  cherished, 
humoured  in  all  his  caprices,  indulged  in  his  boy- 
ish predilections,  and  raised  over  the  heads  of 
his  brothers,  independently  of  all  personal  or 
relative  merit  in  himself.  The  consequence  is, 
that  he  gradually  becomes  self-willed,  proud, 
and  arrogant,  often  to  an  offensive  degree;  but 
all  this  is  frequently  mixed  up  with  a lofty  bom- 
bast, and  an  xmdercurrent  of  strong  disguised 
affection,  that  render  his  early  life  remarkably 
ludicrous  and  amusing.  Indeed,  the  pranks  of 
pedantry,  the  pretensions  to  knowledge,  and  the 
humour  with  which  it  is  mostly  displayed,  render 
these  scions  of  divinity,  in  their  intercourse  with 
the  people  until  the  period  of  preparatory  edu- 
cation is  completed,  the  most  interesting  and 
comical  class,  perhaps,  to  be  found  in  the  king- 
dom. Of  these  learned  priesthngs  young  Denis 
was  undoubtedly  a first-rate  specimen.  His 
father,  a man  of  no  education,  was,  nevertheless, 
as  profound  and  unfathomable  upon  his  favour- 
ite subjects  as  a philosopher;  but  this  profundity 
raised  him  mightily  in  the  opinion  of  the  people, 
who  admired  him  the  more  the  less  they  under- 
stood him. 

Now  old  Denis  was  determined  that  young 
Denis  should  tread  in  his  own  footsteps;  and, 
sooth  to  say,  young  Denis  possessed  as  bright  a 
talent  for  the  dark  and  mysterious  as  the  father 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


291 


himself.  No  sooner  had  the  son  commenced 
Latin  with  the  intention  of  adorning  the  church, 
than  the  father  put  him  in  training  for  contro- 
versy. For  a considerable  time  the  laurels  were 
uniformly  borne  away  by  the  veteran;  but  what 
will  not  learning  do?  Ere  long  the  son  got  as 
far  as  syntax,  about  which  time  the  father  began 
to  lose  groimd,  in  consequence  of  some  ugly 
quotations  which  the  son  threw  into  his  gizzard, 
and  which  unfortunately  stuck  there.  By  and 
by  the  father  receded  more  and  more,  as  the  son 
advanced  in  his  Latin  and  Greek,  until,  at  length, 
their  encounters  were  only  resorted  to  for  the 
purpose  of  showing  off  the  son. 

When  young  Denis  had  reached  the  age  of 
sixteen  or  seventeen,  he  was  looked  upon  by  his 
father  and  his  family,  as  well  as  by  all  their  re- 
lations in  general,  as  a prodigy.  It  was  amusing 
to  witness  the  delight  with  which  the  worthy  man 
would  call  upon  his  son  to  exhibit  his  talents,  a 
call  to  which  the  son  instantly  attended.  This 
was  usually  done  by  commencing  a mock  con- 
troversy, for  the  gratification  of  some  neighbour 
to  whom  the  father  was  anxious  to  prove  the 
great  talents  of  his  son.  When  old  Denis  got 
the  young  so  garth  fairly  in  motion,  he  gently 
drew  himself  out  of  the  dispute,  but  continued 
a running  comment  upon  the  son’s  erudition, 
pointed  out  his  good  things,  and  occasionally  re- 
sumed the  posture  of  the  controversialist  to  re- 
inspirit the  boy  if  he  appeared  to  flag. 

“ Denny,  abouchal,  will  you  come  up  till  Phad- 
rick  Murray  hears  you  arguin’  Scripther  wid  my- 


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self,  Dinny.  Now,  Phadrick,  listen,  but  keep 
your  tongue  sayin’  nothin’;  jist  lave  us  to  our- 
selves. Come  up,  Dinny,  till  you  have  a hate 
at  arguin’  wid  myself.” 

“ Fadher,  I condimnate  you  at  once — I con- 
dimnate  you  as  being  a most  ungrammatical 
ould  man,  an’  not  fit  to  argue  wid  any  one  that 
knows  Murray’s  English  Grammar,  an’  more 
espaciously  the  three  concords  of  Lilly’s  Latin 
one;  that  is  the  cognation  between  the  nomina- 
tive case  and  the  verb,  the  consanguinity  between 
the  substantive  and  the  adjective,  and  the  blood- 
relationship  that  irritates  between  the  relative 
and  the  antecedent.” 

“ I tould  you,  Phadrick!!  There’s  the  boy 
that  can  rattle  off  the  high  English,  and  the 
lamed  Latin,  jist  as  if  he  was  born  wid  an  Eng- 
lish Dixonary  in  one  cheek,  a Latin  Neksuggawn 
in  the  other,  an’  Doctor  Gallagher’s  Irish  Sar- 
mons  nately  on  the  top  of  his  tongue  between  the 
two.” 

“Fadher,  but  that  unfortunately  I am  afflicted 
wid  modesty,  I’d  blush  crocus  for  ,your  igno- 
rance, as  Virgil  asserts  in  his  Bucolics,  ut  Vir- 
gilius  ait  in  Bucolicis;  and  as  Horatius,  a book 
that  I’m  well  acquainted  wid,  says  in  another 
place.  Hue  pertinent  verba,  says  he,  com- 
modandi,  comparandi,  dandi,  promittendi,  sol- 
vendi  imperandi  nuntiandi,  fidendi,  ohsequendi, 
minandi  irascendi,  et  Us  contrariaf' 

“ That’s  a good  boy,  Dinny;  but  why  would 
you  blush  for  my  ignorance,  avourneen?  Take 
care  of  yourself  now,  an’  spake  deep,  for  I’ll  out 


TRAITS  AND  STORIKS 


2oa 

ar^e  you  at  the  heel  o’  the  hunt,  cute  as  you  are.” 
“ Why  do  I blush  for  your  ignorance,  is  it? 
why  thin,  I’m  sure  I have  sound  rasons  for  it: 
only  think  of  the  gross  persivarance  wid  which 
you  call  that  lamed  work,  the  Lexicon  in  Greek, 
a neck-suggan.  Fadher  never  attimpt  to  argue 
or  display  your  ignorance  wid  me  again.  But, 
moreover,  I can  probate  you  to  be  un  ungram- 
matical man,  from  your  own  modus  of  argu- 
ment.” 

“Go  on,  avourneen.  Phadidck!!” 

“ I’m  listenin’.  The  sorra’s  no  match  for  his 
cuteness,  an’  one’s  puzzled  to  think  where  he  can 
get  it  all.” 

“ Why,  you  don’t  know  at  all  what  I could  do 
by  lamin’.  It  would  be  no  throuble  to  me  to 
divide  myself  into  two  halves,  an’  argue  the  one 
agin  the  other.” 

“ You  would,  in  throth,  Dinny.” 

“ Ay,  father,  or  cut  myself  acrass,  an’  dispute 
my  head,  maybe,  agin  my  heels.” 

“ Throth  would  you!  ” 

“ Or  practise  logic  wid  my  right  hand,  and  bate 
that  agin  with  my  left.” 

“ The  sarra  lie  in  it.” 

“ Or  read  the  Greek  Tistament  wid  my  right 
eye,  an’  thranslate  it  at  the  same  time  wid  my 
left,  according  to  the  Greek  an’  English  sides 
of  my  face,  wdd  my  tongue  constrein’  it  into 
Irish,  unknownst  to  both  o’  them.” 

“ Why,  Denis,  he  must  have  a head  like  a bell 
to  be  able  to  get  into  things.” 

“ Throth  an’  he  has  that,  an’  ’ill  make  a noise 


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in  conthroversy  yet,  if  he  lives.  Now,  Dinny, 
let  us  have  a hate  at  histhory.” 

“A  hate  at  histhory? — wid  all  my  heart;  but 
before  we  begin,  I tell  you  that  I’ll  confound  you 
precipitately;  for  you  see,  if  you  bate  me  in  the 
English,  I’ll  scarify  you  wid  Latin,  and  give  you 
a bang  or  two  of  Greek  into  the  bargain.  Och! 
I wish  you’d  hear  the  sackin’  I gave  Tom  Reilly 
the  other  day;  rubbed  him  down,  as  the  masther 
says,  wid  a Greek  towel,  an’  whenever  I compli- 
mented him  with  the  loan  of  a cut  on  the  head,  I 
always  gave  him  a plaster  of  Latin  to  heal  it ; but 
the  sorra  worse  healin’  flesh  in  the  world  than 
Tom’s  is  for  the  Latin,  so  I bruised  a few  Greek 
roots  and  laid  them  to  his  caput  so  nate,  that  you’d 
laugh  to  see  him.  Well  is  it  histhory  we  are  to 
begin  wid?  If  it  is,  come  on — advance.  I’m 
ready  for  you — in  protection — wid  my  guards 
up.” 

“ Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well,  if  he  isn’t  the  drollest 
crathur,  an’  so  cute!  But  now  for  the  histhory. 
Can  you  prove  to  me,  upon  a clear  foundation, 
the  differ  atween  black  an’  white,  or  prove  that 
Phadrick  Murray  here,  long  life  to  him,  is  an 
ass?  Now,  Phadrick,  listen,  for  you  must  decide 
betune  us.” 

“ Orra,  have  you  no  other  lamin’  than  that  to 
argue  upon  ? Sure  if  you  call  upon  me  to  decide, 
I must  give  it  agin  Dinny.  Why,  my  judgment 
won’t  be  worth  a hap’orth,  if  he  makes  an  ass  of 
me!” 

“ What  matther  how  you  decide,  man  alive,  if 
he  proves  you  to  be  one ; sure  that’s  all  we  want. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


295 


Never  heed  shakin’  your  head — listen  an’  it  will 
be  well  worth  your  while.  Why,  man,  you’ll 
know  more  nor  you  ever  knew  or  suspected  be- 
fore, when  he  proves  you  to  be  an  ass.” 

“ In  the  first  place,  fadher,  you’re  ungram- 
matical in  one  word;  instead  of  sayin’  ‘prove,’  al- 
ways say  probate,  or  probe;  the  word  is  de- 
scindid,  that  is,  the  ancisthor  of  it  is,  proho,  a 
deep  Greek  w ord — proho,  prohas,  prob-ass,  that 
is  to  say,  I’m  to  probe  Phadrick  here  to  be  an  ass. 
Now,  do  you  see  how  pat  I brought  that  in? 
That’s  the  way,  Phadrick,  I chastise  my  fadher 
with  the  languages.” 

“ In  throth  it  is ; go  an,  avick.  Phadrick!  ” 

“ I’m  listenin’.” 

“Phadrick,  do  you  know  the  differ  atween 
black  an’  white?  ” 

“ Atween  black  an’  w^hite?  Hut,  gorsoon,  to 
be  sure  I do.” 

“ Well,  an’  what  might  it  be,  Phadrick,  my 
lamed  Athiop?  What  might  it  be,  I negoti- 
ate?” 

“Why,  thin,  the  differ  atween  them  is  This, 
Dinny,  that  black  is — let  me  see — why — that 
black  is  not  red — nor  yallow — nor  brown — nor 
green — nor  purple — nor  cutbeard — nor  a heather 
colour — nor  a grogram” 

“ Nor  a white?  ” 

“ Surely,  Dinny,  not  a white,  abouchal;  don’t 
think  to  come  over  me  that  way.” 

“ But  I want  to  know  what  colour  it  is,  most 
lamed  sager.” 

“All  rasonable,  Dinny.  Why,  thin,  black  is 


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— let  me  see — ^hut,  death  alive ! — it’s — a — a — 
why,  it’s  black,  an’  that’s  all  I can  say  about  it; 
yes,  faix,  I can — black  is  the  colour  of  Father 
Curtis’s  coat.” 

“ An’  what  colour  is  that,  Phadrick?  ” 

“ Why,  it’s  black,  to  be  sure.” 

“ Well,  now,  what  colour  is  white,  Phadrick?  ” 
“ Why,  it’s  a snow-colour : for  all  the  world  the 
colour  of  snow.” 

“ White  is?  ” 

‘‘  Ay,  is  it.” 

“ The  dear  help  your  head,  Phadrick,  if  that’s 
all  you  know  about  snow.  In  England,  man, 
snow  is  an  Oxford  grey,  an’  in  Scotland  a pepper 
an’  salt,  an’  sometimes  a cutbeard,  when  they  get 
a hard  winther.  I found  that  much  in  the  Greek, 
any  way,  Phadrick.  Thry  agin,  you  imigrant. 
I’ll  give  you  another  chance — what  colour  is 
white?  ” 

“ Why,  thin,  it’s — white — an’  nothin’  else. 
The  sorra  one  but  you’d  puzzle  a saint  wid  your 
long-headed  screwtations  from  books.” 

“ So,  Phadrick,  your  preamble  is,  that  white  is 
white,  an’  black  is  black?  ” 

“ Asy,  avick.  I said,  sure  enough,  that  white 
is  white ; but  the  black  I deny — I said  it  was  the 
colour  of  Father  Curtis’s  black  coat.” 

“ Oh,  you  barbarian  of  the  world,  how  I scorn 
your  profundity  an’  emotions!  You’re  a dis- 
grace to  the  human  sex  by  your  superciliousness 
of  knowledge,  an’  your  various  quotations  of 
ignorance.  Ignorantia,  Phadrick,  is  your  date, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


297 


an’  superscription.  Now,  stretch  out  your  ears, 
till  I probate,  or  probe  to  you  the  diff'er  at  ween 
black  an’  white.” 

“ Phadrick!!  ” said  the  father. 

“ I’m  listenin’.” 

“ Now,  Phadrick,  here’s  the  griddle,  an’  here’s 
a clane  plate.  Do  you  see  them  here  beside  one 
another?  ” 

“ I’m  lookin’  at  them.” 

“ Now,  shut  your  eyes.” 

“ Is  that  your  way,  Denis,  of  judgin’  col- 
ours? ” 

“ Shut  your  eyes,  I say,  till  I give  you  ocular 
demonstration  of  the  differ  atween  these  two  re- 
spectable colours.” 

“ Well,  they’re  shut.” 

“ An’  keep  them  so.  Now,  what  differ  do 
vou  see  atween  them?  ” 

“ The  sorra  taste,  man  alive;  I never  seen  any- 
thing in  my  whole  life  so  clearly  of  a colour  as 
they  are  both  this  minute.” 

“ Don’t  you  see  now,  Phadrick,  that  there’s 
not  the  smallest  taste  o’  differ  in  them,  an’  that’s 
accordin’  to  Euclid.” 

‘‘  Sure  enough,  I see  the  divil  a taste  o’  differ 
atween  the  two.” 

“Well,  Phadrick,  that’s  the  point  settled. 
There’s  no  discrimination  at  all  atween  black  an’ 
white.  They’re  both  of  the  same  colour — so 
long  as  you  keep  your  eyes  shut.” 

“ But  if  a man  happens  to  open  his  eyes, 
Dinny?  ” 


298 


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“ He  has  no  right  to  open  them,  Phadrick,  if 
he  wants  to  prove  the  truth  of  a thing.  I should 
have  said  probe — but  it  does  not  significate.” 

“ The  heavens  mark  you  to  grace,  Dinny. 
You  did  that  in  brave  style.  Phadrick,  ahagur, 
he’ll  make  the  darlin’  of  an  arguer  whin  he  gets 
the  robes  an  him.” 

“ I don’t  deny  that;  he’ll  be  aquil  to  the  best 
o’  thim:  still  Denis,  I’d  rather,  whin  I want  to 
pronounce  upon  colours,  that  he’d  let  me  keep 
my  eyes  open.” 

“ Ay,  but  he  did  it  out  o’  the  books,  man  alive; 
an’  there’s  no  goin’  beyant  thim.  Sure  he  could 
prove  it  out  of  the  Divinity,  if  you  went  to  that. 
An’  what  is  still  more,  he  could,  by  shuttin’  your 
eyes,  in  the  same  way  prove  black  to  be  white,  an’ 
white  black,  jist  as  asy.” 

“ Surely  myself  doesn’t  doubt  it.  I suppose, 
by  shuttin’  my  eyes,  the  same  lad  could  prove 
anything  to  me.” 

“ But,  Dinny,  avourneen,  you  didn’t  prove 
Phadrick  to  be  an  ass  yit.  Will  you  do  that  by 
histhory,  too,  Dinny,  or  by  the  norrations  of  Illo- 
cution?  ” 

“Father,  I’m  surprised  at  your  gross  imper- 
ception.  Why,  man,  if  you  were  not  a rari  avis 
of  somnolency,  a man  of  most  frolicsome  deter- 
minations, you’d  be  able  to  see  that  I’ve  proved 
Phadrick  to  be  an  ass  already.” 

“ Throth,  I deny  that  you  did;  there  wasn’t  a 
word  about  my  bein’  an  ass,  in  the  last  discoorse. 
It  was  all  upon  the  differ  atween  black  an’ 
white.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


299 


“ Oh,  how  I scorn  your  griivity,  imin!  l^no- 
rantiaj  as  I said,  is  your  date  an’  superscription; 
an’  when  you  die,  you  ought  to  go  an’  engage  a 
stone-cutter  to  carve  you  a head-stone,  an’  make 
him  write  on  it.  Hie  jacct  Ignorantius  lledi- 
vivus.  An’  the  translation  of  that  is,  accordin’ 
to  Publius  Virgilius  Maro — ‘here  lies  a quadru- 
ped who  didn’t  know  the  differ  atween  black  an’ 
white.’  ” 

“ Well,  by  the  livin’,  Dinny,  I dunna  where 
you  get  all  this  deep  readin’.” 

“ Sure  he  gets  it  all  in  the  Dixonary.” 

“ Bedad,  that  Dixonary  must  be  a fine  book 
entirely,  to  thim  that  can  undherstand  it.” 

“ But,  Dinny,  will  you  tell  Phadrick  the  Case 
of  Conscience  atween  Barny  Branagan’s  two 
goats  an’  Parra  Ghastha’s  mare?  ” 

“ Fadher,  if  you  were  a grammarian  I’d  casti- 
gate your  incompatability  as  it  desarves — I’d  lay 
the  scourge  o’  syntax  upon  you,  as  no  man  ever 
got  it  since  the  invintion  o’  the  nine  parts  of 
speech.  By  what  rule  of  logic  can  you  say  that 
aither  Barny  Branagan’s  goats  or  Parra 
Ghastha’s  mare  had  a conscience?  I tell  you  it 
wasn’t  they  had  the  conscience,  but  the  divine 
who  decided  the  difficulty.  Phadrick,  lie  down 
till  I illusthrate.” 

“ How  is  that,  Dinny?  I can  hear  you  sit- 
tin’.” 

“ Lie  down,  you  reptile,  or  I shall  decline  the 
narration  altogether.” 

“ Arra,  lie  down,  Phadrick;  sure  he  only  wants 
to  show  you  the  rason  o’  the  thing.” 


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“Well,  well;  I’m  down.  Now  Dinny,  don’t 
let  your  feet  be  too  lamed,  if  you  plase.” 

“ Silence! — taceto!  you  reptile.  Now,  Phad- 
rick,  here,  on  this  side  o’  you,  lies  Barny  Brana- 
gan’s  field;  an’  there,  on  that  side,  lies  a field  of 
Parra  Ghastha’s;  you’re  the  ditch  o’  mud  betuxt 
them.” 

“ The  ditch  o’  mud!  Faix  that’s  dacent!  ” 

“ Now  here,  on  Barny  Branagan’s  side,  feeds 
Parra  Ghastha’s  mare;  an’  there,  on  Parra  Ghas- 
tha’s side,  feed  Barny  Branagan’s  goats.  Do 
you  comprehend?  Do  you  insinuate?  ” 

“ I do — I do.  Death  ahve!  there’s  no  use  in 
punchin’  my  sides  wid  your  feet  that  way.” 

“ Well,  get  up  now  an’  set  your  ears.” 

“ Now  listen  to  him,  Phadrick!  ” 

“ It  was  one  night  in  winter,  when  all  nature 
shone  in  the  nocturnal  beauty  of  tenebrosity : the 
sun  had  set  about  three  hours  before;  an’,  ac- 
cordin’ to  the  best  logicians,  there  was  a dearth 
of  light.  It’s  the  general  opinion  of  philoso- 
phers— that  is,  of  the  soxmdest  o’  them — that 
when  the  sun  is  down  the  moon  an’  stars  are 
usually  up;  an’  so  they  were  on  the  night  that 
I’m  narratin’  about.  The  moon  was,  wid  great 
respect  to  her  character,  night-walkin’  in  the  sky ; 
and  the  stars  vegetated  in  celestial  genuflexion 
around  her.  Nature,  Phadrick,  was  in  great 
state;  the  earth  was  undher  our  feet,  an’  the  sky 
above  us.  The  frost,  too,  was  hard,  Phadrick, 
the  air  keen,  an’  the  grass  tendher.  All  things 
were  enrobed  wid  verisimihtude  an’  scrupulosity. 
In  this  manner  was  the  terraqueous  part  of  our 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


301 


system,  when  Parra  Ghastha’s  mare,  after  havin’ 
taken  a cowld  collation  on  Barny  Branagan’s 
grass,  was  returnin’  to  her  master’s  side  o’  the 
merin ; an’  Barny  Branagan’s  goats,  havin’  tasted 
the  sweets  of  Parra  Ghastha’s  cabbages,  were  on 
their  way  acrass  the  said  merin  to  their  own  side. 
Now  it  so  happened  that  they  met  exactly  at  a 
narrow  gap  in  the  ditch  behind  Rosha  Halpin’s 
house.  The  goats,  bein’  coupled  together,  got 
one  on  each  of  the  rift,  wid  the  rope  that  coupled 
them  extended  acrass  it.  The  mare  stood  in  the 
middle  of  it,  so  that  the  goats  were  in  the  way  of 
the  mare,  an’  the  mare  in  the  way  of  the  goats. 
In  the  mean  time  they  surveyed  one  another  wid 
great  composure,  but  had  neither  of  them  the  po- 
liteness to  stir,  until  Rosha  Halpin  came  sud- 
denly out,  an’  emptied  a vessel  of  untransparent 
wather  into  the  ditch.  The  mare,  who  must  have 
been  an  animal  endowed  wid  great  sensibility  of 
soul,  stooped  her  head  suddenly  at  the  noise ; an’ 
the  goats,  who  were  equally  sentimental,  gave  a 
start  from  nervishness.  The  mare,  on  raisin’  her 
head  came  in  contact  wid  the  cord  that  united  the 
goats ; an’  the  goats,  havin’  lost  their  commandin’ 
position,  came  in  contact  wid  the  neck  o’  the 
mare.  Quid  multis?  They  pulled  an’  she 
pulled,  an’  she  pulled  an’  they  pulled,  until  at 
length  the  mare  was  compelled  to  practise  the 
virtue  of  resignation  in  the  ditch,  wid  the  goats 
about  her  neck.  She  died  by  suspinsion;  but  the 
mettlesome  ould  crathur,  wid  a love  of  justice 
that  did  her  honour,  hanged  the  goats  in  requital ; 
for  they  departed  this  vale  of  tears  on  the  moun- 


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tain  side  along  wid  her,  so  that  they  had  the  sat- 
isfaction of  dyin’  a social  death  together. — Now, 
Phadrick,  you  quadruped,  the  case  of  conscience 
is,  whether  Parra  Ghastha  has  a right  to  make 
restitution  to  Barny  Branagan  for  the  loss  of  his 
goats,  or  Barny  Branagan  to  Parra  Ghastha  for 
the  loss  of  his  mare?  ” 

Bedad,  that’s  a puzzler!  ” 

“ Isn’t  it,  Phadrick?  But  wait  till  you  hear 
how  he’ll  clear  it  up!  Do  it  for  Phadrick, 
Dinny.” 

“ Yis,  Phadrick,  I’ll  illusthrate  your  intellects 
by  divinity.  You  see,  Phadrick,  you’re  to  sup- 
pose me  to  be  in  the  chair,  as  confessor.  Very 
well — or  valde,  in  the  lamed  languages — Parra 
Ghastha  comes  to  confess  to  me,  an’  tells  me  that 
Barny  Branagan  wants  to  be  paid  for  his  goats. 
I tell  him  it’s  a disputed  point,  an’  that  the  price 
o’  the  goats  must  go  to  the  church.  On  the  other 
hand,  Barny  Branagan  tells  me  that  Parra 
Ghastha  wishes  to  be  paid  for  his  mare.  I say 
again,  it’s  a disputed  point,  an’  that  the  price  of 
the  mare  must  go  to  the  church — the  amount  of 
the  proceeds  to  be  applied  in  prayer  towards  the 
benefit  of  the  parties,  in  the  first  instance,  an’  of 
the  faithful  in  general  afterwards.” 

“ Phadrick!!!” 

“ Oh,  that  I may  never,  but  he  bates  the 
globe!  ” 

Denny’s  character  is  a very  common  one  in  the 
remote  parts  of  Ireland,  where  knowledge  is 
novelty,  and  where  the  slightest  tinge  of  learn- 
ing is  looked  upon  with  such  reverence  and  ad- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


;i03 

miration,  as  can  be  properly  understood  only  by 
those  who  have  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  it. 
Indeed,  few  circumstances  prove  the  great  moral 
influence  which  the  Irish  priesthood  possesses 
over  the  common  people  more  forcibly,  than  tlie 
extraordinary  respect  paid  by  the  latter  to  such 
as  are  designed  for  the  “ mission.”  The  mo- 
tnent  the  determination  is  made,  an  incipient 
sanctity  begins,  as  it  were,  to  consecrate  the 
young  priest;  and  a high  opinion  of  his  learning 
and  talents  to  be  entertained,  no  matter  how  dull 
he  may  be  so  far  as  honest  nature  is  concerned. 
Whatever  he  says  is  sure  to  have  some  hidden 
meaning  in  it,  that  would  be  highly  edif}dng, 
if  they  themselves  understood  it.  But  their  own 
humility  comes  in  here  to  prop  up  his  talents; 
and  whatsoever  perplexity  there  may  be  in  the 
sense  of  what  he  utters,  is  immediately  attributed 
to  learning  altogether  beyond  their  depth. 

Love  of  learning  is  a conspicuous  principle  in 
an  Irish  peasant;  and  in  no  instance  is  it  seen 
to  greater  advantage,  than  when  the  object  of 
it  appears  in  the  “ makins  of  a priest.”  Among 
all  a peasant’s  good  and  evil  qualities,  this  is  not 
the  least  amiable.  How  his  eye  will  dance  in  his 
head  with  pride,  when  the  young  priest  thunders 
out  a line  of  Virgil  or  Homer,  a sentence  from 
Cicero,  or  a rule  from  Syntax!  And  with  what 
complacency  and  affection  will  the  father  and 
relations  of  such  a person,  when  sitting  during  a 
winter  evening  about  the  hearth,  demand  from 
him  a translation  of  what  he  repeats,  or  a gram- 
matical analysis,  in  which  he  must  show  the  de- 


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pendencies  and  relations  of  word  upon  word — 
the  concord,  the  verb,  the  mood,  the  gender,  and 
the  case,  into  every  one  and  all  of  which  the 
learned  youth  enters  with  an  air  of  oracular  im- 
portance, and  a polysyllabicism  of  language  that 
fails  not  in  confounding  them  with  astonishment 
and  edification.  Neither  does  Paddy  confine 
himself  to  Latin  or  Greek,  for  his  curiosity  in 
hearing  a little  upon  all  known  branches  of  hu- 
man learning  is  boundless.  When  a lad  is  de- 
signed for  the  priesthood,  he  is,  as  if  by  a species 
of  intuition,  supposed  to  know  more  or  less  of 
everything — astronomy,  fluxions,  Hebrew,  Ara- 
bic, and  the  black  art,  are  subjects  upon  which 
he  is  frequently  expected  to  dilate;  and  vanity 
scruples  not,  under  the  protection  of  their  igno- 
rance, to  lead  the  erudite  youth  through  what 
they  believe  to  be  the  highest  regions  of  imagi- 
nation, or  the  profoundest  depths  of  science  and 
philosophy. 

It  is,  indeed,  in  those  brilliant  moments,  when 
the  young  priest  is  launching  out  in  full  glory 
upon  some  topic  of  which  he  knows  not  a syllable, 
that  it  would  be  a learned  luxury  to  catch  him. 
These  flights,  however,  are  very  pardonable,  when 
we  consider  the  importance  they  give  him  in  the 
eyes  of  his  friends,  and  reflect  upon  that  lofty 
and  contemptuous  pride,  and  those  delectable 
sensations  which  the  appearance  of  superior 
knowledge  gives  to  the  pedant,  whether  raw  or 
trained,  high  or  low,  in  this  profession  or  the 
other.  It  matters  little  that  such  a feeling  di- 
lates the  vanity  in  proportion  to  the  absence  of 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


305 


real  knowledge  or  good  sense;  it  is  not  real,  but 
affected  knowledge,  we  are  writing  about.  Pride 
is  confined  to  no  condition;  nor  is  the  juvenile 
pedantry  of  a youth  upon  the  hob  of  an  Irish 
chimney-corner  much  different  from  the  pride 
which  sits  upon  the  brow  of  a worthy  Lord 
Mayor,  freshly  knighted,  lolling  with  strained 
dignity  beside  his  honourable  brother,  the  mace, 
during  a city  procession ; or  of  a Lady  Mayoress, 
when  she  reads  upon  a dead  wall  her  owm  name 
flaming  in  yellow  capitals,  at  the  head  of  a sub- 
scription ball;  or,  what  is  better  still,  the  con- 
temptuous glance  which,  while  about  to  open  the 
said  ball,  her  ladyship  throws  at  that  poor  crea- 
ture— the  Sheriff’s  wife. 

In  addition,  however,  to  the  enjoyment  of  this 
assumption  of  profound  learning  which  charac- 
terises the  young  priest,  a different  spirit,  con- 
siderably more  practical,  often  induces  him  to 
hook  in  other  motives.  The  learning  of  Denis 
O’Shaughnessy,  for  instance,  blazed  with  peculiar 
lustre  whenever  he  felt  himself  out  at  elbows; 
for  the  logic  with  which  he  was  able  to  prove 
the  connection  between  his  erudition  and  a wool- 
len-draper’s shop,  was,  like  the  ignorance  of 
those  who  are  to  be  saved,  invincible.  Whenever 
his  father  considered  a display  of  the  son’s  pow- 
ers in  controversy  to  be  capital,  Denis,  who  knew 
the  mollia  tempora  fandi,  applied  to  him  for  a 
hat.  Whenever  he  drew  a heretic,  as  a person 
who  will  be  found  hereafter  without  the  wedding 
garment,  and  clinched  the  argument  with  half  a 
dozen  quotations  from  syntax  or  Greek  gram- 

III— 20 


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mar,  he  uniformly  came  down  upon  the  father 
for  a coat,  the  cloth  of  which  was  fine  in  pro- 
portion to  the  web  of  logic  he  wove  during  the 
disputation.  Whenever  he  seated  himself  in  the 
chair  of  rhetoric,  or  gave  an  edifying  homily  on 
prayer,  with  such  eloquence  as  rendered  the 
father’s  admiration  altogether  inexpressible,  he 
applied  for  a pair  of  small-clothes;  and  if,  in 
the  excursiveness  of  his  vigorous  imagination  he 
travelled  anywhere  beyond  the  bounds  of  common 
sense,  he  was  certain  to  secure  a pair  of  shoes. 

This,  of  course,  did  not  escape  the  satirical  ob- 
servation of  the  neighbours,  who  commented 
upon  the  circumstance  with  that  good  humour 
which  renders  their  mother-wit  so  pleasant  and 
spicy.  The  scenes  where  many  of  these  displays 
took  place,  varied  according  to  the  occurrence  of 
those  usual  incidents  which  diversify  country  life. 
Sometimes  old  Denis’s  hearth  was  selected;  at 
others,  a neighbouring  wakehouse,  and  not  unfre- 
quently  the  chapel-green,  where,  surrounded  by 
a crowd  of  eager  listeners,  the  young  priest  and 
his  Latin  would  succeed  in  throwing  the  hedge- 
schoolmaster  and  his  problems  completely  into 
the  shade. 

The  father’s  pride,  on  these  occasions,  always 
prompted  him  to  become  the  aggressor;  but  he 
only  did  this  to  draw  out  the  talents  of  his  son 
to  more  advantage.  Never  was  man  foiled  with 
less  regret  than  old  Denis;  nor  did  ever  man 
more  bitterly  repent  those  little  touches  of  vanity, 
which  sometimes  induced  him,  when  an  oppor- 
tunity of  prostrating  Denny  arrived,  to  show 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


807 

what  he  could  have  done,  hy  giving  the  son’s 
argument  an  unexpected  brainblow.  These  acci- 
dental defeats  always  brought  the  son  more  than 
he  lost  by  them;  for  the  fatlier  usually  made  him 
a peace-offering  in  the  shape  of  pocket-money, 
books,  or  clothes.  The  great  amusement  of  the 
peasantry  around  the  chapel-green  of  a Sunday, 
was  to  hear  the  father  and  son  engaged  in  argu- 
ment: and  so  simple  was  the  character  of  both, 
that  their  acquaintances  declared  they  could 
know  by  the  state  of  young  Denis’s  coat,  and  the 
swaggering  grasp  with  which  old  Denis  held  his 
staff,  that  an  encounter  was  about  to  take  place. 

“ Young  O’Shaughnessy’s  gettin’  bare,”  they 
wmdd  observe;  “there’ll  be  hard  arguin’  till  he 
gets  the  clothes.  He’s  puttin’  in  for  a black 
coat  now,  he’s  so  grave.  Go  on,  Denny,”  they 
would  say  again:  “more  powxr  an’  a dacenter 
sleeve  to  your  elbow.  Stick  to  him ! — very  good ! 
— that’s  a clincher! — you’re  gone  beyond  the 
skirts,  Denny! — let  him  pocket  that  lamin’! 
Dinis,  you’re  bate,  body  and  slaves  !^^ — you’re 
no  match  for  the  gorsoon,  Dinis.  Good  agin, 
abouchal! — that’s  puttin’  the  collar  on  it!” — 
And  so  on,  varying  the  phrase  according  to  the 
whim  of  the  moment. 

Nothing  gave  the  father  greater  pleasure  than 
these  observations,  although  the  affected  earnest- 
ness with  which  he  encountered  the  son,  and  his 
pretended  indignation  at  those  who  affirmed  him 
to  have  been  beaten,  were  highly  amusing  to  the 
bystanders. 

Such  discussions  were  considered  highly  edify- 


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ing  and  instructive  by  them,  and  they  were  some- 
times at  a loss  whether  to  give  the  palm  of  in- 
genuity and  eloquence  to  the  father  or  Denny. 
The  reader,  however,  must  not  suppose  that  the 
contemptuous  expressions  scattered  over  Denny’s 
rhetorical  flourishes,  when  discussing  these  points 
with  his  father,  implied  want  of  reverence  or 
affection — far  from  it.  On  the  contrary,  the 
father  always  hked  him  the  better  for  them,  inas- 
much as  they  proved  Denny’s  vast  superiority 
over  liimself.  They  were,  therefore,  only  the 
licenses  and  embellishments  of  discussion,  tol- 
erated and  encouraged  by  him  to  whom  they 
were  applied. 

Denny  at  length  shot  up  to  the  stature  of  a 
young  man,  probably  about  eighteen;  and  dur- 
ing the  two  last  years  of  his  school  studies, 
he  presented  a considerable,  if  not  a decid- 
edly marked  change  in  his  character  and  ex- 
ternal appearance.  His  pride  became  more 
haughty,  and  the  consciousness  of  his  learning, 
and  of  the  influence  annexed  to  the  profession 
for  which  he  was  intended,  put  itself  forth  with 
less  discussion  but  more  energy.  His  manners 
and  attitude  became  constrained;  the  expression 
of  his  face  began  to  darken,  and  to  mould  itself 
into  a stiff,  gloomy  formality,  that  was  strongly 
calculated  to  conceal  the  natural  traits  of  his 
character.  His  dress,  too,  had  undergone  a great 
improvement;  for  instead  of  wearing  shop  blue 
or  brown,  he  wore  good  black  broad-cloth,  had  a 
watch  in  his  fob,  a respectable  hat,  and  finer 
linen. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


309 


This  change,  now  necessary  in  consequence  of 
his  semiclerical  character,  influenced  him  through 
every  relation  of  life.  His  nearest  friends, 
whilst  their  pride  in  him  increased,  fell  off  to 
a more  respectable  distance ; and  his  deportment, 
so  far  from  being  that  of  the  good-humoured 
Bobadil  of  polemics  and  pedantry  upon  all  known 
and  unknown  subjects,  became  silent  and  solemn, 
chequered  only  during  the  moments  of  family 
conviviality  by  an  excessive  flow  of  that  pleasant 
and  still  incomprehensible  learning,  for  the  pos- 
session of  which  he  had  so  honestly  earned  him- 
self a character.  ^luch  of  his  pedantry  was  now 
lopped  off,  it  is  true,  because  the  pride  of  his 
station  prevented  him  from  entering  into  discus- 
sions with  the  people.  It  cost  him,  however, 
some  trouble  to  overcome  his  early  tendencies; 
nor,  after  all,  can  it  be  affirmed  that  he  alto- 
gether succeeded  in  eradicating  them.  Many  a 
grave  shrug,  and  solemn  wink,  and  formal  nod, 
had  he  to  answer  for,  when  his  foot  touched  the 
debatable  land  of  controversy.  Though  con- 
trary to  the  keeping  and  dignity  of  his  position 
in  life,  yet  did  honest  Denny  then  get  desper- 
ately significant,  and  his  face  amazingly  argu- 
mentative. Many  a pretender  has  he  fairly 
annihilated  by  a single  smile  of  contempt  that 
contained  more  logic  than  a long  argument  from 
another  man.  In  fact,  the  whole  host  of  rhetor- 
ical figures  seemed  breaking  out  of  his  face.  By 
a solitary  glance  of  his  eye  he  could  look  a man 
into  a dilemma,  and  practice  a sorites,  or  a home- 
made syllogism,  by  the  various  shiftings  of  his 


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countenance,  as  clearly  as  if  he  had  risen  to  the 
full  flight  of  his  former  bombast.  He  had,  in 
short,  a primd  facie  disposition  to  controversy; 
his  nose  was  set  upon  his  face  in  a kind  of  firm 
defiance  against  infidels,  heretics,  and  excorn- 
municated  persons ; and  when  it  curled  with  con- 
tempt of  another,  or  with  pride  in  the  power  that 
slumbered  in  itself,  it  seemed  to  give  the  face 
from  which  it  projected,  and  the  world  at  large, 
the  assurance  of  a controversialist.  Nor  did  his 
negative  talents  rest  here:  a twist  of  his  mouth 
to  the  right  or  left  ear,  was  nicely  shaded  away 
into  a negative  or  affirmative,  according  as  he 
intended  it  should  be  taken;  and  when  he  used 
his  pocket-handkerchief,  he  was  certain,  though 
without  uttering  a syllable,  to  silence  his  oppo- 
nent, so  contemptuously  did  his  intonations  rout 
the  arguments  brought  against  him.  The  sig- 
nificance and  force  of  all  these  was  heightened 
by  the  mystery  in  which  they  were  wrapped;  for 
whenever  unbending  decorum  constrained  him  to 
decline  the  challenges  of  the  ignorant,  with  whom 
discussion  would  now  be  degradation,  what  could 
he  do  to  soothe  his  vanity,  except,  as  the  poet  says, 
with  folded  arms  and  a shaking  of  the  head  to 
exclaim — W ell,  well,  we  know;  or,  xve  could,  an 
if  we  would;  or,  if  we  list  to  speak;  or,  there  he 
an  if  they  might which  left  the  imaginations 
of  his  hearers  at  liberty  to  conceive  more  fully 
of  those  powers  which  his  modesty  declined  ex- 
hibiting. For  some  time  before  he  got  abso- 
lutely and  finally  into  black,  even  his  father  gave 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


311 


up  his  accustomed  argaiment  in  despair.  The 
son  had  become  an  adept  in  all  the  intricacies 
and  obscurities  of  Latin,  and  literally  over- 
whelmed the  old  man  with  small  inundations  of 
that  language,  which  though,  like  all  inunda- 
tions, rather  muddy,  yet  were  they  quite  suffi- 
cient to  swxep  the  worthy  veteran  before  them. 

Young  Denis  O’Shaughnessy  w^as  now  pretty 
nearly  finished  at  school,  that  is  to  say,  almost 
fit  for  Maynooth;  his  studies,  though  higher,  were 
less  assiduous ; his  leisure  was  consequently 
greater;  and  it  is  well  known,  that  a person  of 
his  character  is  never  asked  to  work,  except  it 
be  his  own  pleasure  to  labour  a day  or  two,  by 
way  of  amusement.  He  might  now  be  seen 
walking  of  a warm  day  along  the  shady  sides 
of  the  hedges  with  a book  in  his  hand,  or  stretched 
listlessly  upon  the  grass,  at  study;  or  sauntering 
about  among  the  neighbouring  workmen,  with 
his  fore-finger  between  the  leaves  of  his  book,  a 
monument  of  learning  and  industry. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  Denis, 
who  was  an  Irishman  of  eighteen,  handsome  and 
well  made,  could  be  altogether  insensible  to 
female  beauty,  and  the  seductive  charms  of  the 
sex.  During  his  easy  saunterings — or,  as  the 
Scotch  say,  “ daunerings  ” — along  the  roads 
and  about  the  green  hedges,  it  often  happened 
that  he  met  a neighbour’s  daughter,  and  Denis, 
who,  as  a young  gentleman  of  breeding,  was 
bound  to  be  courteous,  could  not  do  less  than 
accost  her  with  becoming  urbanity. 


312 


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“ Good  mornin’,  Miss  Norah,”  we  will  suppose 
him  to  say,  when  meeting  a good-looking,  arch 
girl  of  his  acquaintance. 

“ Good  morrow,  Mr.  O’Shaughnessy.  I hope 
you’re  well.  Sir.” 

“ Indeed  I am,  at  present,  in  superlatively 
ecclesiastical  health.  Miss  Norah.  I hope  all 
your  family  are  well?  ” 

‘‘  All  very  well,  I thank  you.  Sir,  barrin’  my- 
self.” 

“ An’  pray  what’s  the  matther  wid  you.  Miss 
Norah?  I hope  ” (with  an  exceeding  grave  but 
complacent  smile)  “you’re  not  affected  wid  the 
amorous  passion  of  love?” 

“ Oh,  that  ’ud  be  telhn’,  Mr.  O’Shaughnessy! 
But  supposin’  I am,  what  ought  I to  do  ? ” 

“ That’s  really  a profound  question.  Miss 
Norah.  But  though  I cannot  tell  you  what  to 
do,  I can  tell  you  what  I think.” 

“ An’  what  is  that.  Sir?  ” 

“ Why,  Miss  Norah,  that  he  who  is  so  beatified 
as  to  secure  you  in  the  matrimonial  paction — 
compactum  it  is  in  the  lamed  languages — ^in 
other  words — to  condescend  to  your  capacity — 
he  who  is  married  to  you  will  be  a happy  man. 
There  is  a juvenility  about  your  eyes,  and  an 
efflorescence  of  amaranthine  odoriferousness 
about  your  cheeks  and  breath,  that  are  enough 
to  communicate  the  centrifugal  motion  to  any 
brain  adorned  with  the  slightest  modicum  of  sen- 
timent.” 

“ He  who  marries  me  will  be  a happy  man!  ” 
she  exclaimed,  repeating  these  expressions,  prob- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


313 


ably  because  they  were  the  only  words  she  un- 
derstood, “ I hope  so,  Misther  O’Shaughness}^ 
Rut,  sure  enough,  who’d  expect  to  hear  sich  soft 
talk  from  the  makins  of  a priest!  Very  well. 
Sir!  Upon  my  word  I’ll  be  tellin’  Father  Fin- 
nerty  that  you  do  be  spakin’  up  to  the  girls! — 
Now!!” 

“No,  no.  Miss  Norah;  you  wouldn’t  do  that 
merely  for  my  sayin’  that  you’re  the  handsomest 
girl  in  the  parish.  Father  Finnerty  himself 
might  say  as  much,  for  it  would  be  nothing  but 
veracity — nothing  but  truth.  Miss  Norah.” 

“Ay!  but  he  wouldn’t  be  pattin’  me  on  the 
cheek!  Be  asy,  Mr.  O’Shaughnessy ; there’s 
Darby  Brady  lookin’  at  you,  an’  he’ll  be  tellin’ ! ” 

“Where?”  said  Denis,  starting. 

The  girl  replied  only  by  an  arch  laugh. 

“ Upon  my  classicality.  Miss  Norah,  you’re  a 
rogue;  there’s  nobody  lookin’,  you  seraphim!  ” 

“ Then  there’s  a pair  of  us  rogues,  Misther 
Dinis.” 

“No,  no,  Miss  Norah;  I was  only  feeling  your 
cheek  as  a philosophical  experiment.  Philoso- 
phers often  do  it,  in  order  to  make  out  an 
hypothesis.” 

“ JMisther  Dinis,  if  I’m  not  marrid  till  you’re 
a priest,  won’t  you  say  the  words  for  me  for 
nothing?  ” 

“ So  long  as  you  ask  it  wid  such  a brilliant 
smile,  jNIiss  Norah,  do  you  think  that  any  edu- 
cated young  man,  who  has  read  about  beauty 
an’  sentimentality  in  books,  could  refuse  you? 
But  you  know.  Miss  Norah,  that  the  clergyman 


314 


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who  marries  a couple  has  always  the  right  of 
kissing  the  bride.  Now  I wouldn’t  claim  my 
right  then;  but  it  might  be  possible  by  a present 

compromise  to — to . What  would  you 

think,  for  instance,  to  give  me  that  nowf 

“ To  give  you  what?  ” 

“ Why  the indeed  it’s  but  a slight  recom- 

pense, the — k — the  salutation — the  kiss.  You 
know  what  tasting  the  head  means?  ” 

“ Faix,  Misther  Dinis,  you’re  a great  rogue. 
Who’d  think  it  indeed?  Sure  enough,  they  say 
smooth  wather  runs  deep ! Why  one  ’ud  suppose 
butther  wouldn’t  melt  in  your  mouth  to  look  at 
you ; an’  yet  you  want  to  be  toyin’  wid  the  girls ! 
Indeed  an’  faix,  it’s  a great  shame  for  the  likes 
o’  you,  that’s  bint  on  Maynooth,  to  be  thinkin’ 
of  coortin’  at  all.  But  wait!  Upon  my  word. 
I’ll  have  a fine  story  agin  you,  plase  goodness  1 ” 

This  latter  threat  the  mischievous  girl  threw 
out  with  a grave  face,  in  order  to  bring  Denis 
into  a more  ridiculous  dilemma;  for  she  saw 
clearly  that  he  laboured  under  a heavy  struggle 
between  timidity  and  gallantry.  The  ruse  suc- 
ceeded. Denis  immediately  changed  his  tone, 
and  composed  his  face  into  a grave  admonitory 
aspect,  nearly  equal  to  a homily  on  prudence  and 
good  conduct. 

“ Miss  Norah,”  said  he,  “ perhaps  I acted 
wrong  in  carrying  my  trial  of  your  disposition 
too  far.  It’s  a thing,  however,  which  we  who 
are  intended  for  the  church  are  ordered  to  do, 
that  we  may  be  able  to  make  out  what  are  called 
in  this  very  book  you  see  wid  me,  cases  of  con- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


315 


science.  But  the  task  is  now  over,  Miss  Norah; 
and,  in  requital  for  your  extrame  good  nature, 
I am  bound  to  administer  to  you  a slight  lecture 
on  decorum. 

“In  the  first  place,  attend  your  duties  regu- 
larly. I will  soon  be  goin’  to  Maynooth;  an’  as 
you  are  one  of  the  girls  for  whom  I have  the 
greatest  regard,  I will  expect  on  my  return  to 
hear  a good  account  of  you.  It  is  possible  that 
you  will  be  introduced  in  my  absence  to  the  hon- 
ours of  matrimony;  but  even  so,  I know  that 
peace,  an’  taciturnity,  an’  submission  will  be  your 
most  signal  qualifications.  You  will  then  be  in 
a situation  equal  to  that  of  the  Roman  matron. 
As  for  us.  Miss  Norah,  we  are  subject  to  the 
dilapidations  of  occasional  elevation.  The  am- 
brosia of  sentiment  lies  in  our  path.  We  care 
not  for  the  terrestriahties  of  life,  when  separated 
from  the  great  principle  of  the  poet — 

‘ Omnia  vincit  amor,  et  nos  cedamus  amori.’ 

That’s  Hebrew,  Miss  Norah!  ” 

“ They  say  you  know  a power  of  lamin’,  Mis- 
ther  Dinis.” 

“ Yes,  I know  the  seven  languages;  but  what 
is  all  that  compared  to  the  cardinal  virtues? 
This  world  is  a mere  bird  of  passage.  Miss 
Norah;  and  it  behoves  us  to  be  ever  on  the  wing 
for  futurity  and  premeditation.  Now  will  you 
remember  the  excellent  moral  advice  I have  given 
you?  ” 

“ Indeed  I will,  sir,”  replied  the  roguish  minx, 
tripping  away,  “ particularly  that  you  promised 


316 


IRELAND 


to  marry  me  for  nothin’  if  I’d  give  you  a kiss!  ” 

‘‘  Give  up  everything  like  levity,  Miss  Norah. 
Attend  your  du  ” — 

“You’re  a fool,  Misther  O’Shaughnessy! 
Why  didn’t  you  take  the  kiss,  an’  spare  the  king’s 
English?  ” 

On  making  this  observation  she  redoubled  her 
pace,  and  left  Denis  now  perfectly  sensible  that 
he  was  a proper  subject  for  her  mirth.  He 
turned  about,  and  called  after  her — 

“ Had  I known  that  you  were  only  in  jocosity. 
Miss  Norah,  upon  my  classicality,  I’d  have  given 
you  the  k — 

He  now  perceived  that  she  was  beyond  hear- 
ing, and  that  it  was  unnecessary  to  finish  the 
sentence. 

These  accidental  meetings  between  Denis  and 
the  pretty  daughters  of  the  neighbouring  farm- 
ers, were,  somehow,  very  frequent.  Our  hero, 
however,  was  always  extremely  judicious  in  tem- 
pering his  gallantry  and  moral  advice  to  his 
young  female  acquaintances.  In  the  beginning 
of  the  conversation  he  was  sly  and  complimen- 
tary, afterwards  he  became  more  insinuating, 
then  more  direct  in  his  praises  of  their  beauty; 
but  as  his  timidity  on  the  point  of  character  was 
known,  the  mischief-loving  girls  uniformly 
ended  with  a threat  of  exposing  him  to  the  priest, 
to  his  friends,  or  to  the  neighbours,  as  the  whim 
directed  them.  This  brought  him  back  to  his 
morality  again;  he  immediately  commenced  an 
exhortation  touching  their  religious  duties,  thus 
hoping  to  cover,  by  a trait  more  becoming  his 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


317 


future  destination,  the  little  harmless  badinage 
in  which  he  had  indulged. 

The  girls  themselves  frequently  made  him  the 
topic  of  conversation,  a proof  that  he  was  not 
altogether  indifferent  to  them.  In  these  little 
conclaves  he  came  very  well  off.  Among  them 
all  it  was  admitted,  “ that  there  was  a rogue  in 
his  coat;  ” but  this  was  by  no  means  uttered  in 
a tone  of  voice  that  betrayed  any  disrelish  to 
him.  On  the  contrary,  they  often  said — and 
many  of  them  with  an  involuntary  sigh — that 
“he  was  too  purty  to  be  made  a priest  of;” 
others,  that  “ it  was  a pity  to  make  a priest  of 
so  fine  a young  man;”  others,  again,  that  “if 
he  must  be  a priest,  the  colleens  would  be  all 
flockin’  to  hear  his  sarmons.”  There  was  one, 
however,  among  them  who  never  mentioned  him 
either  in  praise  or  censure ; but  the  rapid 
changes  of  her  expressive  countenance  gave 
strong  indications  to  an  observing  eye,  that  his 
name,  person,  and  future  prospects  were 
capable  of  exciting  a deep  and  intense  interest 
in  her  heart. 

At  length  he  began  to  appear  on  horseback; 
and  as  he  had  hitherto  been  in  the  habit  of  tak- 
ing that  exercise  bare-backed,  now  he  was  re- 
solved to  get  into  a saddle,  and  ride  like  a gen- 
tleman. Henceforth  he  might  be  seen  mounted 
upon  one  of  his  father’s  horses,  quite  erect,  and 
with  but  one  spur,  which  was,  in  fact,  the  only 
spur,  except  the  whiskey  bottle,  that  had  been  in 
the  family  for  three  generations.  This  w^as 
used,  he  declared,  for  no  other  purpose  in  life 


318  IRELAND 

than  that  of  “ stimulating  the  animal  to  the  true 
clerical  trot.” 

From  the  moment  he  became  a mounted  man, 
he  assumed  an  air  of  less  equivocal  command  in 
the  family;  and  not  only  to  his  own  relations 
was  this  authority  manifested,  but  to  his  more 
distant  acquaintances,  and,  in  short,  to  the  whole 
parish.  The  people  now  began  to  touch  their 
hats  to  him,  which  act  of  respect  he  returned  as 
much  in  imitation  of  the  parish  priest  as  pos- 
sible. They  also  began  to  ask  him  what  o’clock 
it  was,  and  Denis,  with  a peculiar  condescension, 
balanced  still  with  becoming  dignity,  stopped, 
pulled  out  his  watch,  and  told  the  hour,  after 
which  he  held  it  for  a few  seconds  to  his  ear  with 
an  experienced  air,  then  put  it  in  a dignified 
manner  in  his  fob,  touched  the  horse  with  the 
solitary  spur,  put  himself  more  erect,  and  pro- 
ceeded with — as  he  himself  used  to  say,  when 
condemning  the  pride  of  the  curate — “ all  the 
lordliness  of  the  parochial  priest.” 

The  notions  which  the  peasantry  entertain  of 
a priest’s  learning  are  as  extravagant  as  they  are 
amusing,  and  such,  indeed,  as  would  be  too  much 
for  the  pedantic  vanity  inseparable  from  a half- 
educated  man  to  disclaim.  The  people  are  suf- 
ficiently reasonable,  however,  to  admit  grada- 
tions in  the  extent  of  knowledge  acquired  by 
their  pastors;  but  some  of  the  figures  and  illus- 
trations which  they  use  in  estimating  their  com- 
parative merits  are  highly  ludicrous.  I remem- 
ber a young  man,  who,  at  the  age  of  twenty- 
two,  set  about  preparing  himself  for  the  church. 


32ioH  £ io  srfJ  oi  bsiomoi*!  airtaQ 

^VA'l  ^t«5  ^nwotO,  «»  wo-i^  ^nji\:ji3. 


Denis  Promoted  to  the  Dignity  of  a Horse 

Etching  from  cm  Original  Drawing  by  Phiz 


^ .*■ 

W m 

TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


319 


He  lived  in  the  bosom  of  a mountain,  whose 
rugged  breast  he  cultivated  with  a strength  pro- 
portioned to  the  difficulty  of  subduing  it.  He 
was  a powerful  young  fellow,  quiet  and  inof- 
fensive in  his  manners,  and  possessed  of  great 
natural  talents.  It  was  upon  a Monday  morn- 
ing, in  the  month  of  June,  that  the  school-room 
door  opened  a foot  and  a half  wider  than  usual, 
and  a huge  colossal  figure  stalked  in,  with  a kind 
of  bashful  laugh  upon  his  countenance,  as  if  con- 
scious of  the  disproportion  betwixt  his  immense 
size  and  that  of  the  other  schoolboys.  His 
figure,  without  a syllable  of  exaggeration,  was 
precisely  such  as  I am  about  to  describe.  His 
height  six  feet,  his  shoulders  of  an  enormous 
breadth,  his  head  red  as  fire;  his  body-coat  made 
after  the  manner  of  his  grandfather’s — the  skirts 
of  it  being  near  his  heels — and  the  buttons  be- 
hind little  less  than  eighteen  inches  asunder. 
The  pockets  were  cut  so  low,  that  when  he 
stretched  his  arm  to  its  full  length,  his  fingers 
could  not  get  further  than  the  flaps;  the  breast 
of  it  was  about  nine  inches  longer  than  was  nec- 
essary, so  that  when  he  buttoned  it,  he  appeared 
all  body.  He  wore  no  cravat,  nor  was  his  shirt 
collar  either  pinned  or  buttoned,  but  lay  open  as 
if  to  disclose  an  immense  neck  and  chest  scorched 
by  the  sun  into  a rich  and  healthy  scarlet.  His 
chin  was  covered  with  a sole  of  red  dry  bristles 
that  appeared  to  have  been  clipped  about  a fort- 
night before;  and  as  he  wore  neither  shoe  nor 
stocking,  he  exhibited  a pair  of  legs  to  which 
Rob  Roy’s  were  drumsticks.  They  gave  proof 


320 


IRELAND 


of  powerful  strength,  and  the  thick  fell  of  bristly 
hair  with  which  they  were  covered,  argued  an 
amazing  hardihood  of  constitution  and  tremen- 
dous physical  energy. 

“ Sure,  Masther,  I’m  cornin’  to  school  to 
you ! ” were  the  first  words  he  uttered. 

Now  there  ran  beneath  the  master’s  solemnity 
of  manner,  a broad  but  shallow  under-current 
of  humour  which  agreed  but  poorly  with  his 
pompous  display  of  learning.  On  this  occasion 
his  struggle  to  retain  the  grave  and  overcome  the 
ludicrous,  was  unavailing.  The  startling  fact 
thus  uncouthly  announced  by  so  grotesque  a can- 
didate for  classical  knowledge,  occasioned  him 
to  receive  the  intelligence  with  more  mirth  than 
was  consistent  with  good-breeding.  His  pupils, 
too,  who  were  hitherto  afraid  to  laugh  aloud,  on 
observing  his  countenance  dilate  into  an  ex- 
pression of  laughter  which  he  could  not  conceal, 
made  the  roof  of  the  house  ring  with  their 
mirth. 

“Silence,  gintlemen!”  said  he,  legit  e,  per- 

legite,  et  relegite — study,  gintlemen,  study — 
pluck  the  tree  of  knowledge,  I say,  while  the 
fruit  is  in  season.  Denny  O’Shaughnessy,  what 
are  you  facetious  for?  Quid  rides,  Dionysi? 
And  so,  Pether — ^is  Pether  your  pronomen — quo 
nomine  gowdes?  Silence,  boys! — perhaps  he 
was  at  Latin  before,  and  we’ll  try  him — quo 
nomine  gowdes,  Pethre?  ’’ 

A stare  of  awkward  perplexity  was  the  only 
reply  he  could  get  from  the  colossus  he  ad- 
dressed. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


321 


“ And  so  you’re  fished  up  from  the  Streights 
at  last,  Pether?  ” 

“ Sir,  my  name’s  not  Pether.  My  father’s 
name  is  Paddy  Doorish,  but  my  own  is  Franky. 
I w^as  born  in  Lisnagh;  but  we  lived  double  as 
long  as  I can  mind  in  the  Mountain  Bar.” 
“And,  Franky,  what  put  Latin  into  your 
head?” 

“ There  was  no  Latin  put  into  my  head;  I’m 
cornin’  to  you  for  that.” 

“ And,  you  graceful  sprig  of  juvenility,  have 
you  the  conscience  to  think  that  I’d  undhertake 
to  fill  what  you  carry  on  your  showlders  on  the 
same  terms  that  I’d  take  for  replenishing  the 
head  of  a rasonable  youth?  Would  you  be  so 
unjust  in  all  the  principles  of  correct  erudition 
as  to  expect  that,  my  worthy  Man-mountain?  ” 
“ I don’t  expect  it,”  said  Frank;  “ all  that’s  in 
your  head  wouldn’t  fill  a corner  of  mine,  if  you 
go  accordin’  to  size;  but  I’ll  pay  you  for  tachin’ 
me  as  much  as  you  know  yourself,  an’  the  more 
I larn  the  less  pains  you’ll  have  wid  me.” 

Franky,  however,  made  an  amazing  progress 
— so  very  rapid,  indeed,  that  in  about  three  years 
from  that  day  he  found  himself  in  Maynooth,  and 
in  three  years  more  was  an  active  curate,  to 
whom  that  very  teacher  appeared  as  slavishly 
submissive  as  if  he  had  never  ridiculed  his  vul- 
garity or  ungainly  dimensions.  Poor  Frank, 
however,  in  consequence  of  the  rapid  progress 
he  made,  and  of  the  very  short  interval  which 
elapsed  from  the  period  of  his  commencing  Latin 
until  that  of  his  ordination,  was  assigned  by  the 

III— 21 


322 


IRELAND 


people  the  lowest  grade  in  learning.  The  term 
used  to  designate  the  rank  which  they  supposed 
him  to  hold,  was  both  humorous  and  expressive. 

“ Franky,”  they  would  say,  “is  no  finished 
priest  in  the  lamin’;  he's  hut  a scowdherj" 

Now  a scowdher  is  an  oaten  cake  laid  upon  a 
pair  of  tongs  placed  over  the  greeshaugh,  or  em- 
bers, that  are  spread  out  for  the  purpose  of  bak- 
ing it.  In  a few  minutes  the  side  first  laid  down 
is  scorched:  it  is  then  turned,,  and  the  other  side 
is  also  scorched;  so  that  it  has  the  appearance 
of  being  baked,  though  it  is  actually  quite  raw 
within.  It  is  a homely,  but  an  exceedingly  apt 
illustration,  when  applied  to  such  men  as  Frank. 

“ Poor  Frank,”  they  would  observe,  “ is  but  a 
scowdher — the  sign  of  the  tongs — No.  11,  is  upon 
him;  so  that  it  is  asy  known  he  never  was  laid 
to  the  muddha  arranf^'^ — that  is  to  say,  properly 
baked — or  duly  and  thoroughly  educated. 

Denis,  however,  to  resume  more  directly  the 
thread  of  our  narrative,  on  finding  himself 
mounted,  took  an  inveterate  prejudice  against 
walking.  There  was  something,  he  thought,  far 
more  dignified  in  riding  than  in  pacing  slowly 
upon  the  earth,  like  a common  man  who  had  not 
the  justification  of  Latin  and  Greek  for  becom- 
ing an  equestrian.  Besides  this  accomplishment, 
there  were  also  many  other  habits  to  be  broken 
off,  and  more  genteel  ones  to  be  adopted  in  their 
place.  These  were  all  suggested  by  his  rising 
pride;  and,  in  sooth,  they  smacked  strongly  of 
that  adroitness  with  which  the  Irish  priest,  and 
every  priest,  contrives  to  accomplish  the  purpose 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


323 


of  feeding  well  through  the  ostensible  medium  of 
a different  motive. 

lie  accordingly  took  his  father  aside  one  morn- 
ing, after  he  had  eaten  a more  meagre  breakfast 
ihan  usual,  and,  after  licking  his  lips,  addressed 
him  in  these  words: — 

I think,  father,  that  upon  considerating  the 
consequence  to  which  I am  now  entitled,  and  the 
degree  of  respectability  which,  in  my  own  per- 
son— in  propria  persona — I communicate  to  the 
vulgarians  with  whom  I am  connected — I call 
them  vulgarians  from  no  derogatory  motive;  but 
you  will  concede  3"ourself,  that  the}^  are  igno- 
rant of  the  lamed  languages,  an’  consequently^ 
though  dacent  enough,  still  in  reference  to  Latin 
an’  Greek,  but  vulgarians.  Well!  Q^uid  mnltis? 
— I say,  that  taking  all  these  things  into  specu- 
lation, looking  at  them — vehiti  in  speculum — it 
is  neither  dacent  nor  becoming  that  I should  ate 
in  the  manner  I have  done,  as  vulgarly  as  them- 
selves— that  I should  ate,  I say,  any^  longer  with- 
out knife  and  fork.  Neither,  I announce,  shall 
I in  future  drink  my  milk  any^  longer,  as  I have, 
with  all  humility,  done  hitherto,  out  of  a noggin ; 
nor  continue  to  disrobe  my  potatoes  any  longer 
without  a becoming  instrument.  I must  also 
have  better  viands  to  consume.  You  are  not  to 
be  informed  that  I am  in  that  situation  of  life, 
in  which,  from  my  education  and  other  accom- 
plishments, I must  be  estimated  as  duly  qualified 
to  ate  beef  and  mutton  instead  of  bacon,  an’  to 
have  my  tay  breakfast  instead  of  stirabout, 
which,  in  polite  society,  is  designated  porridge. 


324 


IRELAND 


You  know  yourself,  and  must  acknowledge,  that 
I’m  soon  likely  to  confer  distinction  and  pre-emi- 
nence upon  the  poor  illiterate,  but  honest  crea- 
tures, with  whom  I am  associated  in  the  bonds 
of  blood-relationship.  If  I were  a dunce,  or  a 
booby,  or  a leather-head,  the  case  might  be  dif- 
ferent; but  you  yourself  are  well  acquainted  with 
my  talents  at  logic  or  conthroversy ; an’  I have 
sound  rasons  and  good  authority,  which  I could 
quote,  if  necessary,  for  proving  that  nothing  in- 
creases the  weight  of  the  brain,  and  accelerates  to 
gravity  and  sohdity  more  than  good  feeding. 
Pay  attention,  therefore  to  my  words,  for  I ex- 
pect that  they  will  be  duly  observed : — buy  me  a 
knife  and  fork;  and  when  I get  them,  it’s  not  to 
lay  them  past  to  rust,  you  consave.  The  beef 
and  mutton  must  follow;  and  in  future  I’m  re- 
solved to  have  my  tay  breakfast.  There  are 
geese,  and  turkeys,  and  pullets  enough  about  the 
yard,  and  I am  bent  on  accomplishing  myself 
in  the  art  of  carving  them.  I’m  not  the  man 
now  to  be  placed  among  the  other  riff-raff  of 
the  family  over  a basket  of  potatoes,  wid  a black 
clerical  coat  upon  me,  and  a noggin  of  milk  under 
my  arm ! I tell  you  the  system  must  be  changed : 
the  schoolmaster  is  abroad,  and  I’ll  tolerate  such 
vulgarity  no  longer.  Now  saddle  the  horse  till  I 
ride  across  the  bog  to  Pether  Rafferty’s  Station, 
where  I’m  to  sarve  mass:  plase  heaven.  I’ll  soon 
be  able  to  say  one  myself,  and  give  you  all  a lift 
in  spirituals — ehem!” 

Throth,  Dinny,  I b’lieve  you’re  right,  avick; 
and ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


325 


Vick  me  no  longer,  father — that’s  another 
thing  I forgot.  It’s  full  time  that  I should  be 
sirred;  and  if  my  own  relations  won’t  call  me 
Sir  instead  of  Dinny,  it’s  hardly  to  be  expected 
that  strangers  will  do  it.  I wish  to  goodness 
you  had  never  stimgatised  me  wid  so  vulgar  an 
epithet  as  Dinny.  The  proper  word  is  Diony- 
sius; and,  in  future.  I’ll  expect  to  be  called  Mis- 
ther  Dionysius.” 

“ Sure,  I or  your  mother  needn’t  be  sirrin"  you, 
Dinny? ” 

“ I haven’t  made  up  my  mind  as  to  whether 
I’ll  demand  that  proof  of  my  respectability  from 
you  and  my  mother,  or  not;  but  on  this  I’m  im- 
movable, that  instead  of  Dinny,  you  must,  as  I 
said,  designate  me  Dionysius.” 

“Well,  well,  avourneen,  I suppose  only  it’s 
right  you  wouldn’t  be  axin’  us;  but  I’m  sure  your 
poor  mother  will  never  be  able  to  get  her  tongue 
about  Dionnisis,  it’s  so  long  and  lamed  a word.” 
“ It  is  a lamed  word,  no  doubt;  but  she  must 
persevere  until  she’s  able  to  masther  it.  I 
wouldn’t  for  three  tenpennies  that  the  priest 
would  hear  one  of  you  call  me  Dinny;  it  would 
degradate  me  very  much  in  his  estimation.  At 
all  events,  if  my  mother  cannot  manage  the 
orthography  of  Dionysius,  let  it  be  Denis,  or  any- 
thing but  that  signature  of  vulgarity,  Dinny. 
Now,  father,  you  won’t  neglect  to  revale  what 
I’ve  ordered  to  the  family?  ” 

“No,  indeed,  I will  not,  avick — I mane  Dion- 
nisis, avourneen — I’ll  tell  them  everything  as  you 
ordhered;  but  as  to  Dionnisis,  I’m  cock  sure  that 


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poor  Mave  will  never  be  able  to  get  her  ould 
tongue  about  so  newfangled  a piece  of  lamin’ 
as  that  is.  Well,  well,  this  knowledge  bates  the 
world!  ” 

When  the  horse  was  saddled,  and  Dionysius  on 
his  way  with  all  due  pomp  to  the  Station,  old 
Denis  broke  the  matter  to  his  wife. 

“ Mave,  achora,”  said  he,  “ I have  sthrange 
news  to  tell  you : sure  Dionnisis  is  goin’  to  make 
himself  a gintleman.” 

‘‘  Sure  what?  ” 

“ Dionnisis,  our  son  Dionnisis,  is  goin’  to  make 
himself  a gintleman;  he’ll  ate  no  longer  widout 
a knife  and  fork.” 

“Saints  about  us!”  exclaimed  Mave,  rising 
and  looking  with  alarm  into  her  husband’s  face — 
“ saints  about  us,  Denis,  what  is’t  ails  you?  Sure 
there  would  be  nothin’  wrong  wid  you  about  the 
head,  Denis?  or  may  be  it’s  a touch  of  a faver 
you’ve  got,  out  riddling  that  corn  bareheaded, 
yistherday?  I remimber  the  time  my  aunt 
Bridget  tuck  the  scarlet  faver,  she  began  to  rave 
and  spake  foolish  in  the  same  way.” 

“ Why,  woman,  if  your  aunt  Bridget  had  a 
faver  made  up  of  all  the  colours  in  the  rainbow, 
I tell  you  I’m  spakin’  sinsel  Our  son  Dionnisis 
proved  himself  a gintleman  out  in  the  garden 
wid  me  about  an  hour  ago.” 

“ I suppose  so,  Denis,”  she  replied,  humouring 
him,  for  she  was  still  doubly  convinced  that  he 
laboured  under  some  incipient  malady,  if  not  un- 
der actual  insanity;  “ an’  what  son  is  this^  Dinny? 
I’ve  never  heard  of  him  before.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


327 


“Our  son  Denis,  woman  alive!  You  must 
know  he’s  not  to  be  called  Dinny  or  Dinis  any 
more,  but  Dionnisis;  he’s  to  begin  atin’  wid  a 
knife  an’  fork  to-morrow ; we  must  get  him  beef 
and  mutton,  and  a tay  breakfast.  He  says  it’s 
not  fair  play  in  any  one  that’s  so  deep  read  in 
the  lamin’  as  he  is,  to  ate  like  a vulgarian,  or  to 
peel  his  phaties  wid  his  fingers,  an’  him  knows  so 
much  Latin  an’  Greek;  an’  my  sowl  to  happi- 
ness but  he’ll  stick  to  the  gintlemanly  way  of 
livin’,  so  far  as  the  beef,  an’  mutton,  and  tay  is 
consarned.” 

“He  will!  An’,  Dinis  O’Shaughnessy,  who 
has  a betther  right  to  turn  gintleman,  nor  the 
gorsoon  that  studied  for  that?  Isn’t  it  proud 
you  ought  to  be  that  he  has  the  spirit  to  think 
of  sich  things?  ” 

“ I’ll  engage,  Mave,  on  that  point  you’ll  find 
him  spirited  enough;  for  my  part,  I don’t  be- 
grudge him  what  he  wants;  but  I heard  the  peo- 
ple say,  that  no  man’s  a gintleman  who’s  not  Col- 
lege-hred;  and  you  know  he’s  not  that  yet.” 

“You  forget  that  he  has  gentle  blood  in  his 
veins,  Denis.  There  was  a day  when  my  family, 
the  Magennises,  held  their  heads  up ; and  Kolum- 
kill  says  that  the  same  time  is  to  come  back  agin  to 
all  the  ould  families.  Who  knows  if  it’s  alto- 
gether from  himself  he’s  takin’  to  the  beef  an’ 
mutton,  but  from  propliecy;  he  knows  what  he’s 
about.  I’ll  warrant  him.  For  our  part,  it’s  not 
right  for  us  to  cross  him  in  it;  it’s  for  the  good 
of  the  church,  no  doubt,  an’  we  might  lose  more 
by  a blast  upon  the  corn  or  the  cattle,  than  he’d 


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ate  the  other  way.  That’s  my  dhrame  out  that 
I had  last  night  about  him.  I thought  we  were 
all  gather  somewhere  that  I can’t  rightly  renum- 
ber; but  anyhow  there  was  a great  sight  of  peo- 
ple in  it,  an’  high  doins  goin’  an  in  the  atin’  way. 
I looked  about  me,  an’  seen  ever  so  many  priests 
dressed  all  like  the  Protestant  clargy;  our  Dinis 
was  at  the  head  of  them,  wid  a three-cocked  hat, 
an’  a wig  upon  him;  he  was  cuttin’  up  beef  an’ 
mutton  at  the  rate  of  a weddin’,  an’  dhrinkin’ 
wine  in  metherfuls. 

“ ‘ Musha,  Dinis,’  says  myself,  ‘ what’s  all  this 
for?  ’ 

“ ‘ Why,’  says  he,  ‘ it’s  all  for  the  good  of  the 
church  an’  the  faithful.  I’m  now  Archbishop  of 
the  county,’  says  he ; ‘ the  Protestants  are  all  ban- 
ished, an’  we  are  in  their  place.’ 

“ The  sorra  one  o’  myself  all  this  time  but 
thought  he  was  a priest  still ; so  says  I,  ‘ Dinny, 
you’re  a wantin’  to  anoint  Paddy  Diarmud,  who’s 
given  over,  an’  if  you  don’t  make  haste,  you  won’t 
overtake  him?  ’ 

“ ‘ He  must  wait  then  till  mornin’,’  says  Dinny; 
‘ or  if  he  chooses  to  die  against  my  will,  an’  the 
will  o’  the  church,  let  him  take  the  quensequences. 
We’re  wealthy  now.’ 

“ I was  so  much  frightened  at  the  kind  of  voice 
that  he  spoke  to  me  in,  that  I awoke;  an’  sure 
enough,  the  first  thing  I heard  was  the  fizzin’  o’ 
bacon  on  the  pan.  I wondered  who  could  be  up 
so  early,  an’  puttin’  my  head  through  the  door, 
there  was  Dinny  busy  at  it,  wid  an  ould  knife  in 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  329 

one  hand,  an’  an  iron  skiver  in  the  other,  imitatin’ 
a fork. 

“ ‘ What  are  you  doin’  so  early,  Dinny?  ’ 
says  I. 

“ ‘ I’m  practisin’,’  says  he. 

“ ‘ What  for?  ’ says  I. 

“ ‘ Oh,  I’m  practisin’,’  says  he,  back  again,  ‘ go 
to  bed;  I’m  practisin’  for  the  church,  an’  the  Sta- 
tion that’s  to  be  in  Pether  Rafferty’s  to-day.’ 

“Now,  Dinny,  between  you  an’  me,  that 
dhrame  didn’t  come  for  nothin’.  So  give  the 
gorsoon  his  way,  an’  if  he  chooses  to  be  a gintle- 
man,  why  let  him;  he’ll  be  the  more  honour  to 
thim  that  reared  him.” 

“ Thrue  for  you,  indeed,  Mave;  he  always  had 
a high  spirit  ever  since  he  was  intinded  for  the 
roheSj  and  would  have  his  own  way  and  will  in 
whatever  he  took  into  his  head,  right  or  wrong, 
as  cleverly  as  if  he  had  the  authority  for  it.” 

“ An’  so  he  ought,  seein’  he  wasn’t  to  be  slavin’ 
at  the  spade,  like  the  rest  o’  the  family.  The 
ways  o’  them  that  have  great  lamin’  as  he  has, 
isn’t  like  other  people’s  ways — they  must  be 
humoured,  and  have  their  own  will,  otherwise 
what  ’ud  they  be  betther  than  their  neighbours?  ” 

The  other  arrangements  laid  down  by  Denis, 
touching  his  determination  not  to  be  addressed 
so  familiarly  by  his  brothers  and  sisters,  were 
next  discussed  in  this  conversation,  and  of  course, 
the  same  prejudice  in  his  favour  was  manifested 
by  his  indulgent  parents.  The  whole  code  of  his 
injunctions  was  subsequently  disclosed  to  the 


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family  in  all  its  extent  and  rigour.  Some  of 
them  heard  it  with  surprise,  and  others  with  that 
kind  of  dogged  indignation  evinced  by  those  who 
are  in  some  degree  prepared  for  the  nature  of 
the  communication  about  to  be  laid  before  them. 
Altogether  the  circumstances  in  which  it  placed 
them  were  peculiar  and  embarrassing.  The 
Irish  peasant  can  seldom  bear  to  have  the  tender- 
ness of  domestic  affection  tampered  with,  whether 
from  pride,  caprice,  or  any  other  motive  not  re- 
lated to  his  prejudices.  In  this  instance  the 
strongest  feelings  of  the  O’Shaughnessys  were 
brunted,  as  it  were  in  hostile  array  against  each 
other;  and  although  the  moral  force  on  each  side 
was  nearly  equal,  still  the  painful  revulsion  pro- 
duced by  Denis’s  pride,  as  undervaluing  their 
affection,  and  substituting  the  cold  forms  of  arti- 
ficial life  for  the  warmth  of  honest  hearts  like 
theirs,  was,  in  the  first  burst  of  natural  fervour, 
strongly,  and  somewhat  indignantly  expressed. 

Denis  had  been  their  pride,  the  privileged  per- 
son among  them — the  individual  whose  talents 
were  to  throw  lustre  upon  a nameless  and  un- 
known family;  the  future  priest — the  embryo 
preacher  of  eminence — ^the  resistless  controver- 
sialist— the  holy  father  confessor — and  perhaps, 
for  with  that  vivacity  of  imagination  peculiar  to 
the  Irish,  they  cauld  scarcely  limit  his  exaltation 
— perhaps  the  bishop  of  a whole  diocese.  Had 
not  the  Lord  Primate  himself  been  the  son  of 
as  humble  a man?  “ And  who  knows,”  said  his 
youngest  and  fairest  sister,  who  of  all  the  family 
was  most  devoted  to  him,  “ but  Dinny  might  yet 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


331 


be  a primate?  ’’  And  as  she  spoke,  the  tear  of 
aifection,  pride,  and  enthusiasm  glistened  in  her 
eye.  Denis,  therefore,  had  been  much,  even  in 
his  youth,  to  their  simple  hearts,  and  far  more  to 
their  hopes  and  expectations,  than  he  was  in  all 
the  pride  of  his  petty  polemics;  but  when  he, 
before  whose  merits,  both  real  and  imaginary, 
every  heart  among  them  bowed  as  before  the 
shrine  of  a tutelar  saint,  turned  round,  ere  the 
destined  eminence  he  aimed  at  was  half  attained, 
and  laid  upon  their  fervent  affection  the  icy  chain 
of  pride  and  worldly  etiquette — the  act  was  felt 
keenly  and  unexpectedly  as  the  acute  spasm  of 
some  sudden  malady. 

The  father  and  mother,  however,  both  de- 
fended him  with  great  warmth;  and  by  placing 
his  motives  in  that  point  of  view  which  agreed 
best  with  their  children’s  prejudices,  they  eventu- 
ally succeeded  in  reconciling  his  brothers  and  sis- 
ters in  some  degree  to  the  necessity  of  adopting 
the  phraseology  he  proposed — that  they  might 
treat  him  with  suitable  respect  in  the  eye  of  the 
world. 

“ It’s  proud  of  him  we  ought  to  be,”  said  his 
father,  ‘‘  and  delighted  that  he  has  sich  a risin’ 
spirit;  an’  sure  the  more  respect  is  paid  to  him, 
the  greater  credit  he  will  be  to  ourselves.” 

“ But,  sure  he  has  no  right,”  said  his  eldest 
brother,  “to  be  settin’  up  for  a gintleman  till 
he’s  priested.  *I’m  willin’  enough  to  Sir  him, 
only  that  it  cuts  me  more  than  I’ll  say,  to  think 
that  I must  be  callin’  the  boy  that  I’d  spill  the 
last  dhrop  of  my  blood  for,  afther  the  manner 


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of  a sthranger;  and  besides,”  he  added,  “ I’m  not 
clear  but  the  neighbours  will  be  passin’  remarks 
upon  us,  as  they  did  when  you  and  he  used  to 
be  arguin’.” 

“I’d  like  to  see  them  that  ’ud  turn  it  into  a 
joke,”  said  his  father;  “ I would  let  them  know 
that  Dinis  O’Shaughnessy’s  dog  is  neither  to  be 
made  or  meddled  wid  in  a disrespectful  manner, 
let  alone  his  son.  We  are  not  widout  friends  and 
connections  that  ’ud  take  our  quarrel  upon  them 
in  his  defince,  if  there  was  a needcessity  for  it; 
but  there  will  not,  for  didn’t  my  heart  lep  the 
other  day  to  my  throat  wid  delight,  when  I saw 
Larry  Neil  put  his  hand  to  his  hat  to  him,  cornin’ 
up  the  Esker  upon  the  mare;  and  may  I never 
do  an  ill  turn,  if  he  didn’t  answer  the  bow  to 
Larry,  as  if  he  was  the  priest  of  the  parish 
already.  It’s  the  wondher  of  the  world  how  he 
picks  up  a jinteel  thing  any  how,  an’  ever  did, 
since  he  was  the  hoith  o’  that.” 

“ Why,”  said  the  mother,  “ what  a norration 
yez  rise  about  thratin  the  boy  as  every  one  like 
him  ought  to  be  thrated.  Wait  till  ye  see  him 
a parish  priest,  and  then  ye’ll  be  cornin’  round 
him  to  get  your  daughters  to  keep  house  for  him, 
and  your  sons  edicated  and  made  priests  of;  but 
now  that  the  child  takes  a ginteel  relish  for  beef 
and  mutton,  and  wants  to  be  respected,  ye  are 
mane  an’  low  spirited  enough  to  grumble  about 
it.” 

“ No,  mother,”  said  his  youngest  sister,  burst- 
ing into  tears,  “ I’d  beg  it  for  him,  sooner  nor 
he  should  want;  but  I can’t  bear  to  be  callin’  my 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


333 


brother  Dinny — Si?' — like  a stranger.  It  looks 
as  if  I didn’t  love  him,  or  as  if  he  was  forgettin’ 
us,  or  carin’  less  about  us  nor  he  used  to  do.” 

This,  in  fact,  was  the  root  and  ground  of  the 
opposition  which  Denis’s  plan  received  at  the 
hands  of  his  relations ; it  repressed  the  cordial  and 
affectionate  intercourse  which  had  hitherto  sub- 
sisted between  them;  but  the  pride  of  life,  and, 
what  is  more,  the  pride  of  an  office  which  ought 
always  to  be  associated  with  humility,  had  got 
into  his  heart;  the  vanity  of  learning,  too,  thin 
and  shallow  though  it  was,  inflated  him ; and  the 
effect  of  both  was  a gradual  induration  of  feel- 
ing— an  habitual  sense  of  his  own  importance, 
and  a notion  of  supreme  contempt  for  all  who 
were  more  ignorant  than  himself. 

After  the  first  impression  of  pain  and  mortifi- 
cation had  passed  away  from  the  minds  of  his 
brothers  and  sisters,  it  was,  however,  unanimously 
admitted  that  he  was  right ; and  ere  long,  no  other 
feeling  than  one  of  good-humour,  mingled  with 
drollery,  could  be  perceived  among  them.  They 
were  clearly  convinced,  that  he  claimed  no  more 
from  strangers  than  was  due  to  him;  but  they 
certainly  were  not  prepared  to  hear  that  he  had 
brought  the  exaction  of  personal  respect  so  com- 
pletely and  unexpectedly  home  to  themselves  as 
he  had  done.  The  thing,  too,  along  with  being 
unreasonable,  was  awkward  and  embarrassing  in 
the  extreme;  for  there  is  a kind  of  feeling  among 
brothers  and  sisters,  which,  though  it  cannot  be 
described,  is  very  trying  to  their  delicacy  and 
shamefacedness  under  circumstances  of  a similar 


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nature.  In  humble  life  you  will  see  a married 
woman  who  cannot  call  her  husband  after  his 
Christian  name;  or  a husband,  who,  from  some 
extraordinary  restraint,  cannot  address  his  wife, 
except  in  that  distant  manner  which  the  principle 
I allude  to  dictates,  and  habit  confirms. 

Denis,  however,  had  overcome  this  modesty, 
and  felt  not  a whit  too  shamefaced  to  arrogate 
to  his  own  learning  and  character,  the  most  un- 
hesitating manifestation  of  their  deference  and 
respect,  and  they  soon  scrupled  not  to  pay  it. 

The  night  of  that  evening  was  pretty  far  ad- 
vanced, when  a neighbour’s  son,  named  Condy 
Callaghan,  came  to  inform  the  family  that  Denis, 
when  crossing  the  bog  on  his  way  home,  had  rode 
into  a swamp,  from  which  he  found  much  diffi- 
culty in  extricating  himself,  but  added,  “ the  mare 
is  sunk  to  the  saddle-skirts,  and  cannot  get  out 
widout  men  and  ropes.”  In  a short  time  a suffi- 
cient number  of  the  neighbours  were  summoned 
together,  and  proceeded  to  the  animal’s  relief. 
Denny’s  importance,  as  well  as  his  black  dress, 
was  miserably  tarnished;  he  stood,  however,  with 
as  dignified  an  air  as  possible,  and,  in  a bombastic 
style,  proceeded  to  direct  the  men  as  to  the  best 
manner  of  relieving  her. 

“ Asy,  Dinny,”  said  his  brother,  with  a good- 
humoured  but  significant  smile — “ laming  may 
be  very  good  in  its  place;  in  the  mane  time,  lave 
the  business  in  our  hands  rather  than  in  your 
own  head — or  if  you  have  e’er  a scrap  of  Greek 
or  Latin  that  ’ud  charm  ould  Sobersides  out, 
where  was  the  use  of  sendin’  for  help?  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


;i;i5 

“ I say,”  replied  Denis,  highly  offended,  “ I’ll 
not  tolerate  vulgarity  any  longer;  you  must  larn 
to  address  me  in  a more  polite  style.  If  the 
animal — that  purblind  quadruped — walked  into 
the  mire,  by  Avhat  logic  can  you  produce  an  asso- 
ciation between  her  blindness  and  my  knowledge 
of  Latin  and  Greek?  But  why  do  I degradate 
m}^  own  consequence  by  declaiming  to  you  an 
eulogium  upon  logic?  It’s  only  throwing  pearls 
before  swine.” 

“ I didn’t  mane  to  offind  you,”  replied  the 
warm-hearted  brother;  “I  meant  you  no  offince 
in  what  I said,  so  don’t  take  it  ill — we’ll  have 
Sobersides  out  in  no  time — and  barrin’  an’  extra 
rubbin’  down  to  both  of  you,  neither  will  be  the 
worse,  I hope.” 

“ As  to  what  you  hope  or  despair,  Brian,  it 
could  produce  no  other  impression  on  the  subtilty 
of  my  fancy,  than  pity  for  the  man  who  could 
compare  me — considering  the  brilliancy  of  my 
career,  and  the  extent  of  my  future  speculations 
— to  a quadruped  like  Sobersides,  by  asserting 
that  I,  as  well  as  she,  ought  to  be  rubbed  down! 
And  were  it  not  that  I confront  the  offince  with 
your  own  ignorance,  I would  expose  you  before 
the  townland  in  which  we  stand ; ay,  to  the  whole 
parish — but  I spare  you,  out  of  respect  to  my 
own  consequence.” 

“ I ax  your  pardon,”  said  the  brother,  “ I won’t 
offind  you  in  the  same  way  again.  What  I said, 
I said  to  you  as  I though  a brother  might — I ax 
your  pardon!” 

There  was  a slight  agitation  approaching  to  a 


336 


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tremor  in  his  brother’s  voice,  that  betokened  sor- 
row for  his  own  impropriety  in  too  familiarly 
addressing  Denis,  and  perhaps  regret  that  so 
slight  and  inoffensive  a jest  should  have  been  so 
harshly  received  in  the  presence  of  strangers,  by 
a brother  who  had  in  reality  been  his  idol.  He 
reflected  upon  the  conversation  held  on  that  morn- 
ing in  the  family,  touching  Denny’s  prerogative 
in  claiming  a new  and  more  deferential  deport- 
ment from  them  all ; and  he  could  not  help  feeling 
that  there  was  in  it  a violation  of  some  natural 
principle  long  sacred  to  his  heart.  But  the  all- 
pervading  and  indefinite  awe  felt  for  that  sacer- 
dotal character  into  which  his  brother  was  about 
to  enter,  subdued  all,  and  reconciled  him  to 
those  inroads  upon  violated  Nature,  despite  her 
own  voice,  loudly  expressed  as  it  was  in  his 
bosom. 

When  the  family  was  once  more  assembled 
that  night,  Denis  addressed  them  in  a tone,  which 
implied  that  the  odium  theologicum  had  not  pre- 
vented the  contrition  expressed  by  his  brother 
from  altogether  effacing  from  his  mind  the  traces 
of  his  offence. 

“ Unworthy  of  respect,”  he  proceeded,  “as  it 
appears  by  some  of  my  relations  I am  held,”  and 
he  glanced  at  his  brother,  “ yet  I beg  permission 
to  state,  that  our  worthy  parochial  priest,  or  I 
should  rather  say,  the  Catholic  Rector  of  this 
parish,  is  of  a somewhat  different  habit  of  thought 
or  contemplation.  I dined  with  him  to-day — 
ehem — dined  with  him  upon  an  excellent  joint  of 
mutton — I say,  father — the  mutton  was  good — 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


337 


and  with  his  proud  pertinacious  curate,  whom  I 
do  not  at  all  relish;  whether,  as  Homer  says — I 
enumerate  his  scurrilous  satire,  or  his  derogatory 
insinuations.  His  parochial  pastor  and  spiritual 
superior  is  a gentleman,  or  as  Horace  says,  homo 
f actus  ad  unguem — which  is  paraphrastically 
every  inch  a gentleman — or  more  hterally  a gen- 
tleman to  the  tops  of  his  fingers — ehem — hem — 
down  to  the  very  nails — as  it  were. 

“ Well — having  discussed  that — observatis  ob- 
servandis,  quoad  sacerdotem — having  passed  my 
eulogium  upon  Father  Finnerty — upon  my  word 
and  credit  though,  punch  is  prima  facie  drink — 
and  father,  that  brings  me  to  remember  an  omis- 
sion which  I committed  in  my  dialogue  with  you 
this  morning.  I forgot  to  say,  that  after  my 
dinner,  in  the  manner  I expounded  to  you,  it  will 
be  necessary  to  have  a tumbler  of  punch — for  as 
Father  Finnerty  says,  there  is  nothing  which  so 
effectually  promotes  the  organs  of  digestion. 
Now,  my  introduction  of  this,  in  the  middle  of 
my  narrative,  is  what  the  hypercritics  call  a Par- 
enthesis, which  certainly  betrays  no  superficial 
portion  of  literary  perusal  on  my  part,  if  you 
could  at  all  but  understand  it  as  well  as  Father 
Finnerty,  our  worthy  parochial  incumbent  does. 
As  for  the  curate,  should  I ever  come  to  au- 
thority in  the  Irish  hierarchy,  I shall  be  strongly 
disposed  to  discountenance  him;  if  it  were  only 
for  his  general  superciliousness  of  conduct.  So 
there’s  another  clause  disposed  of. 

“ Well — to  proceed — I say  I have  intelli- 
gence regarding  myself,  that  will  be  by  no 

III— 22 


338 


IRELAND 


means  unsavoury  to  you  all.  Father  Fin- 
nerty  and  I had,  about  an  hour  before  din- 
ner this  day,  a long  and  tedious  conver- 
sation, the  substance  of  which  was  my  future 
celebrity  in  the  church.  He  has  a claim  on 
the  Bishop,  which  he  stated  .to  me  will  be 
exercised  in  my  favour,  although  there  are  several 
candidates  for  it  in  this  parish,  not  one  of  whom, 
however,  is  within  forty-five  degrees  of  being  so 
well  qualified  for  college  as  myself.  Father,  is 
there  not  a jar — an  amphora — as  that  celebrated 
satirist  Juvenile,  has  it — an  amphora — in  the 
chimly-brace,  filled  with  liquor — get  it,  and  let  us 
inter  animosity — 111  not  be  long  a member  of 
the  domestic  circle  with  you — so,  upon  the  basis 
of  the  communication  I have  to  make,  let  us,  as 
I said,  become  sextons  to  animosity  and  care. 
‘Dionysius,’  said  Father  Finnerty,  addressing 
me,  which  shows,  at  all  events,  that  I am  not  so 
unimportant  as  some  of  my  friends  would  sup- 
pose— ‘ Dionysius/  said  he  inter  nos — ‘ between 
you  and  me,  I believe  I have  it  in  my  power  to 
send  up  a candidate  to  Maynooth.  ’Tis  true, 
I never  make  a promise — nunquam  facio  votunt, 
except  in  certain  cases,  or  in  other  words,  Diony- 
sius, eocceptis  excipiendis — in  which  is  the  essence, 
as  it  were,  of  a proper  vow.’  In  the  mean  time 
he  proceeded — ‘ With  regard  to  your  prospects 
in  the  church,  I can  only  say  in  the  first  place, 
and  I say  it  with  much  truth  and  sincerity — that 
Fm  badly  off  for  a horse;  that,  however,  is,  as  I 
said,  inter  nos — sub  sigillo.  The  old  garran  I 
have  is  fairly  worn  out — and,  not  that  I say  it. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


339 


your  father  has  as  pretty  a colt  as  there  is  within 
the  bounds — intra  terminos  imrochii  mei,  within 
the  two  ends  of  my  parish : verhum  sat — 
which  is  I’m  sure  you  are  a sensible  and 
discreet  young*  man.  Your  father,  Diony- 
sius, is  a parishioner  whom  I regard  and  es- 
teem to  the  highest  degree  of  comparison, 
and  you  will  be  pleased  to  report  my 
eulogium  to  himself  and  to  his  dacent  family — 
and  proud  may  they  be  of  having  so  brilliant 
a youth  among  them  as  you  are — ehem!  ’ 

“ Now,  you  may  all  think  that  this  was  plain 
conversation;  but  I had  read  too  much  for  that. 
In  fact,  it  was  logic — complate,  convincing  logic, 
every  word  of  it.  So  I responded  to  him  in  what 
is  called  in  the  books,  the  argumentum  ad 
crumenam;  although  I question  but  it  ought  to 
be  designated  here  the  ai'gumentum  ad  hestiam. 
Said  I,  ‘ Father  Finnerty,  the  colt,  my  paternal 
property,  which  you  are  pleased  to  eulogise  so 
highly,  is  a good  one;  it  was  designed  for  my- 
self when  I should  come  out  on  the  mission ; how- 
ever, I will  undertake  to  say,  if  you  get  me  into 
Maynooth,  that  my  father  on  my  authority  will 
lend  you  the  colt  to-morrow,  and  the  day  of  his 
claiming  it  will  be  dependent  upon  the  fulfil- 
ment of  your  promise  or  votum.’ 

" Signatum  et  sigillatum  est/ — said  he,  for 
indeed  the  best  part  of  the  discussion  was  con- 
ducted in  Latin;  ‘ and  now,’  he  continued,  ‘ my 
excellent  Dionysius,  nothing  remains  but  that 

the  colt  be  presented  ’ 

“ ‘ Lent,’  I responded,  correcting  him,  you 


340 


IRELAND 


see,  even  although  he  was  the  priest — lentf  said 
I ; ‘ and  your  Reverence  will  be  good  enough  to 
give  the  votum  before  one  or  two  of  my  friends.’ 

He  looked  at  me  sharply,  not  expecting  to 
find  such  deep  logic  in  one  he  conjectured  to 
be  but  a tyro, 

“ ‘ You  will  be  a useful  man  in  the  church,’ 
he  added,  ‘ and  you  deserve  to  be  pushed  on  at 
all  events.  In  the  mean  time  tell  your  fattier 
that  I’ll  ride  up  and  breakfast  with  him  to- 
morrow, and  he  can  have  a friend  or  two  to  talk 
over  the  comyactum! 

“ So,  father,  there’s  the  state  of  the  question 
at  present;  the  accomplishment  of  the  condition 
is  dependent  upon  yourself.” 

My  readers  may  perceive  that  Denis,  although 
a pedant,  was  not  a fool.  It  has  been  said  that 
no  man  is  a hero  to  his  valet-de-chambre ; but  I 
think  the  truth  of  the  sentiment  contained  in 
that  saying  is  questionable.  Denis,  on  the  con- 
trary, was  nowhere  so  great  a man  as  in  his  own 
chimney-corner,  surrounded  by  his  family.  It 
was  there  he  was  learned,  accomplished,  pro- 
found; next  to  that  he  was  great  among  those 
who,  although  not  prejudiced  in  his  favour  by 
the  bonds  of  affection,  were  too  ignorant  to  dis- 
cover those  literary  pranks  which  he  played  off,^ 
because  he  knew  he  could  do  so  without  detec- 
tion. The  basis,  however,  of  his  character  was 
shrewd  humour  and  good  sense;  and  even  at  the 
stage  of  life  which  we  have  just  described,  it 
might  have  been  e\ddent  to  a close  observer,  that, 
when  a proper  knowledge  of  his  own  powers. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


341 


joined  to  a further  acquaintance  with  the  world, 
should  enable  him  to  cast  off  the  boyish  as- 
sumption of  pedantry,  a man  of  a keen  ready 
intellect,  and  considerable  penetration,  would 
remain. 

Many  of  my  readers  may  be  inclined  to  ex- 
claim, that  the  character  of  Denny  is  not  to  be 
found  in  real  life;  but  they  are  mistaken  who 
think  so.  They  are  not  to  suppose  that  Denis 
O’Shaughnessy  was  the  same  person  in  his  in- 
tercourse with  intelligent  men  and  scholars,  that 
he  appeared  among  the  illiterate  peasantry,  or 
his  own  relations.  Far  from  it.  With  the 
former,  persons  like  him  are  awkward  and  bash- 
ful, or  modest  and  unassuming,  according  to 
the  bent  of  their  natural  disposition.  With 
scholars  Denis  made  few  pretensions  to  superior 
knowledge;  but  on  the  contrary,  took  refuge,  if 
he  dreaded  a scrutiny  into  his  acquirements,  in 
the  humblest  acknowledgment  of  his  limited 
reading,  and  total  unacquaintance  with  those 
very  topics  on  which  he  was,  under  other  circum- 
stances, in  the  habit  of  expatiating  so  fluently. 
In  fact,  were  I to  detail  some  of  the  scenes  of 
his  exhibitions  as  they  were  actually  displayed, 
then  I have  no  doubt  I might  be  charged  with 
colouring  too  highly. 

When  Denis  had  finished  the  oration  from  the 
chimney-corner,  delivered  with  suitable  gesticu- 
lation while  he  stood  drying  himself  at  the  fire 
after  the  catastrophe  of  the  swamp,  a silence  of 
some  minutes  followed.  The  promise  of  the  colt 
made  to  the  priest  with  such  an  air  of  authority. 


342 


IRELAND 


was  a finale  which  the  father  did  not  expect,  and 
by  which  he  was  not  a little  staggered. 

“ I could  like  it  all  very  well,’'  replied  the 
father,  “ save  an’  except  givin’  away  the  coult 
that’s  worth  five-an’-twenty  guineas,  if  he’s  worth 
a ’crona-hawn.  To  tell  the  blessed  thruth,  Dinis, 
if  you  had  settled  the  business  widout  thaty  I’d 
be  betther  plased.” 

“ Just  exercise  your  contemplation  upon  it  for 
a short  period,”  replied  Denis,  “ and  you  will 
perceive  that  I stipulated  to  lend  him  before  wit- 
nesses; and  if  Father  Finnerty  does  not  matricu- 
late me  into  Maynooth,  then  do  you  walk  down 
some  brilliant  morning  or  other,  and  take  your 
baste  by  the  head,  direct  yourself  home,  hold  the 
bridle  as  you  proceed,  and  by  the  time  you’re 
at  the  rack,  you’ll  find  the  horse  at  the  manger. 
I have  now  stated  the  legality  of  the  matter,  and 
you  may  act  as  your  own  subtilty  of  perception 
shall  dictate.  I have  laid  down  the  law,  do  you 
consider  the  equity.” 

“ Why,”  said  the  father,  ‘‘  if  I thought  he 
would  get  you  into  ” 

“Correct,  quite  correct:  the  cardinal  point 
there  is  the  if.  If  he  does,  give  him  the  horse; 
but  if  not,  reclaim  the  quadruped  without  hesi- 
tation. I am  not  to  be  kept  back,  if  profundity 
and  erudition  can  substantiate  a prospect.  Still, 
father,  the  easiest  way  is  the  safest,  and  the 
shortest  the  most  expeditious.” 

The  embarrassing  situation  in  which  the  other 
members  of  the  family  were  placed,  imposed  upon 
them  a profound  silence,  in  reference  to  the  sub- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


343 


ject  of  conversation.  Yet,  while  Denny  de- 
livered the  aforesaid  harangue  from  the  chimney- 
corner,  every  eye  was  fixed  upon  him  with  an 
expression  of  pride  and  admiration  which  es- 
caped not  his  own  notice.  Their  deportment  to- 
wards him  was  affectionate  and  respectful;  but 
none  of  them  could  so  far  or  so  easily  violate 
old  habits  as  to  address  him  according  to  his 
own  wishes;  they  therefore  avoided  addressing 
him  at  all. 

The  next  morning  Father  Finnerty  paid  them 
his  purposed  visit,  and,  as  he  had  promised,  ar- 
rived in  time  for  breakfast.  A few  of  Denis’s 
relations  were  assembled,  and  in  their  presence 
the  arrangements  respecting  the  colt  and  Denny’s 
clerical  prospects  were  privately  concluded.  So 
far  everything  was  right;  the  time  of  Denny’s 
departure  for  Maynooth  was  to  be  determined 
by  the  answer  which  Father  Finnerty  should  re- 
ceive from  the  bishop;  for  an  examination  must, 
of  course,  take  place,  which  was  to  be  conducted 
by  the  prelate,  or  by  some  other  clergyman  ap- 
pointed for  .that  purpose.  This  and  the  neces- 
sary preparation  usual  on  such  occasions,  were 
the  only  impediments  in  the  way  of  his  departure 
for  Maynooth,  a place  associated  with  so  many 
dreams  of  that  lowly  ambition  which  the  humble 
circumstances  of  the  peasantry  permit  them  to 
entertain. 

The  Irish  people,  I need  scarcely  observe,  are 
a poor  people;  they  are,  also,  very  probably  for 
the  same  reason,  an  imaginative  people;  at  all 
events,  they  are  excited  by  occurrences  which 


344 


IRELAND 


would  not  produce  the  same  vivacity  of  emotion 
which  they  experience,  upon  any  other  people 
in  the  world.  This,  after  all,  is  but  natural;  a 
long  endurance  of  hunger  will  render  the  coarsest 
food  delicious;  and,  on  the  contrary,  when  the 
appetite  is  glutted  with  the  richest  viands,  it  re- 
quires a dish  whose  flavour  is  proportionably  high 
and  spicy  to  touch  the  jaded  palate.  It  is  so 
with  our  moral  enjoyments.  In  Ireland,  a very 
simple  accession  to  their  hopes  or  comforts  pro- 
duces an  extraordinary  elevation  of  mind,  and  so 
completely  unlocks  the  sluices  of  their  feelings, 
that  every  consideration  is  lost  in  the  elation  of 
the  moment.  At  least  it  was  so  in  Denis  O’ 
Shaughnessy’s  family  upon  this  occasion. 

No  sooner  had  Father  Finnerty  received  the 
colt,  and  pledged  himself  that  Denny  should 
have  the  place  in  Maynooth  that  was  then  vacant, 
than  a tumultuous  expression  of  delight  burst 
from  his  family  and  relations.  Business  was 
then  thrown  aside  for  the  day;  the  house  was 
scoured  and  set  in  order,  as  if  it  were  for  a 
festival;  their  best  apparel  was  put  on;  every  eye 
was  bright,  every  heart  throbbed  with  a delight- 
ful impulse,  whilst  kindness  and  hilarity  beamed 
from  their  faces.  In  a short  time  they  all  separa- 
ted themselves  among  their  neighbours  to  com- 
municate the  agreeable  tidings;  and  the  latter, 
with  an  honest  participation  in  their  happiness, 
instantly  laid  aside  their  avocations  and  flocked 
to  Denis  O’ Shaughnessy’s,  that  they  might  con- 
gratulate him  and  his  friends  upon  what  was 
considered  the  completion  of  their  hopes.  When 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


315 


the  day  was  more  advanced,  several  of  Denny’s 
brothers  and  sisters  returned,  and  the  house  was 
nearly  filled  with  their  acquaintances  and  rela- 
tions. Ere  one  o’clock  had  passed  they  were  all 
assembled,  except  old  Denis,  of  whom  no  person 
could  give  any  intelligence.  Talk,  loud  laugh- 
ter, pure  poteen,  and  good-humour,  all  circulated 
freely;  the  friendly  neighbour  unshaved,  and 
with  his  Sunday  coat  thrown  hastily  over  his 
work-day  apparel,  drank  to  Denny’s  health,  and 
wished  that  he  might  “ bate  all  Maynewth  out 
of  the  face;  an’  sure  there’s  no  doubt  of  that, 
any  how — doesn’t  myself  remimber  him  puttin’ 
the  explanations  to  Pasthorini  before  he  was  the 
bulk  o’  my  fist?  ” His  brothers  and  sisters  now 
adopted  with  enthusiasm  the  terms  of  respect 
which  he  had  prescribed  for  them  through  his 
father;  he  was  Sirred  and  Misthered^  and  all  but 
Reverenced,  with  a glow  of  affectionate  triumph 
which  they  strove  not  to  conceal.  He  was  also 
overwhelmed  with  compliments  of  all  hues  and 
complexions : one  reminded  him  of  the  victory  he 
obtained  over  a hedge-schoolmaster  who  came  one 
Sunday  a distance  of  fifteen  miles  to  sack  him  in 
English  Grammar  on  the  chapel-green;  but  as 
the  man  was  no  classical  scholar,  “ Sure,”  ob- 
served his  neighbour,  “ I remember  well  that  he 
couldn’t  get  a word  out  of  Misther  Denis’s  head 
there  but  Latin;  so  that  the  poor  crathur,  afther 
travellin’  fifteen  long  miles,  had  to  go  home 
agin,  the  show  o’  the  world,  widout  undher- 
standin’  a sintence  of  the  larnin’  that  was  put  an 
liim;  an’  so  here’s  wishin’  you  health,  Misther 


346 


IRELAND 


Dinis,  agra,  an’  no  fear  in  life  but  you’ll  be  the 
jewel  at  the  prachin’,  Sir,  plase  Goodness!  ” 
Another  reminded  him  of  “ how  often  he 
proved  Phaidrick  Murray  to  be  an  ass,  and 
showed  him  how  he  couldn’t  make  out  the  differ 
atween  black  an’  white.” 

“ Sure,  an’  he  did,”  said  Phadrick,  scratching 
his  head,  for  he  was  one  of  the  first  at  the  house; 

“ an’  no  wondher,  wid  his  long-headed  screw- 
tations  from  the  books.  Throth,  his  own  father 
was  the  best  match,  barrin’  F ather  Lawdher  that 
was  broke  of  his  bread,  he  ever  met  wid,  till 
he  got  too  many  for  him  by  the  Latin  an’  Greek.” 
This  allusion  to  old  Denis  occasioned  his  ab- 
sence to  be  noticed. 

“ Can  nobody  tell  where  Denis  More  is?  ” said 
the  wife;  “ my  gracious,  but  it’s  quare  he  should 
be  from  about  the  place  this  day,  any  way. 
Brian,  mavourneen,  did  you  see  him  goin’  any 
where?  ” 

“ No,”  said  Brian,  “ but  I see  him  cornin’ 
down  there  carry  in’  some  aitables  in  a basket.” 
Brian  had  scarcely  ended  when  his  father 
entered,  bearing  beef  and  mutton,  as  aforesaid, 
both  of  which  he  deposited  upon  the  kitchen  table, 
with  a jerk  of  generosity  and  pride,  that  seemed 
to  say,  as  he  looked  significantly  at  Denny — 
and,  in  fact,  as  he  did  say  afterwards — “ Never 
spare,  Dinny;  ate  like  a gintleman;  make  your-  , 
self  as  bright  an’  ginteel  as  you  can;  you  won’t 
want  for  beef  an’  mutton!  ” 

Old  Denis  now  sat  down,  and,  after  wiping 
the  perspiration  from  his  forehead,  took  the  glass 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


347 


of  poteen  which  the  wife  handed  him:  he  held 
it  between  liis  finger  and  thumb  for  a moment, 
glanced  around  him  upon  the  happy  faces  pres- 
ent, then  laid  it  down  again,  fixed  his  eyes  upon 
his  son,  and  cast  them  once  more  upon  the  com- 
pany. The  affectionate  father’s  heart  was  full; 
his  breast  heaved,  and  the  large  tears  rolled  slowly 
down  his  cheeks.  By  a strong  effort,  however, 
he  mastered  his  emotion;  and  taking  the  glass 
again,  he  said  in  a broken  voice: — 

“Neighbours! — God  bless  yez! — God  bless 

yez! — Dinny — Dinny — I ” 

The  last  words  he  pronounced  with  difficulty; 
and  drinking  off  his  glass,  set  it  down  empty 
upon  the  table.  He  then  rose  up,  and  shook  his 
neighbours  by  the  hand — 

“ I am,”  said  he,  “ a happy  man,  no  doubt  of 
it,  an’  we’re  all  happy;  an’  it’s  proud  any  father 
might  be  to  hear  the  account  of  his  son,  that  I 
did  of  mine,  as  I was  convoyin’  Father  Finnerty 
a piece  o’  the  way  home.  ‘ Your  son,’,  says  he, 
when  he  took  that  bit  of  a coult  out  o’  my  hand, 
‘ will  be  an  honour  to  you  all.  I tell  you,’  says 
he,  ‘ that  he’s  nearly  as  good  a scholar  as  my- 
self, an’  spakes  Latin  not  far  behind  my  own; 
an’  as  for  a pracher,’  says  he,  ‘ I can  tell  you 
that  he’ll  be  hard  farther  nor  any  man  I know.’ 
He  tould  me  them  words  wid  his  own  two  lips. 
An’  surely,  neighbours,”  said  he,  relapsing  into 
strong  feeling,  “ you  can’t  blame  me  for  bein’ 
both  proud  an’  happy  of  sich  a son.” 

My  readers,  from  the  knowledge  already 
given  them  of  Denny’s  character,  are  probably 


348 


IRELAND 


disposed  to  think  that  his  learning  was  thrown 
out  on  this  occasion  in  longer  words  and  more 
copious  quotations  than  usual.  This,  however, 
was  not  the  case;  so  far  from  that,  he  never 
displayed  less  pedantry,  nor  interspersed  his 
conversation  with  fewer  scraps  of  Latin.  In 
fact,  the  proceedings  of  the  day  appeared  to 
atfect  him  with  a tone  of  thought,  decidedly  at 
variance  with  the  exuberance  of  joy  experienced 
by  the  family.  He  was  silent,  moody,  and 
evidently  drawn  by  some  secret  reflection  from 
the  scene  around  him.  He  held  a book  in  his 
hand,  into  which  he  looked  from  time  to  time, 
with  the  air  of  a man  who  balances  some  con- 
tingency in  his  mind.  At  length,  when  the  con- 
versation of  those  who  were  assembled  became 
more  loud  and  boisterous,  he  watched  an  opportu- 
nity of  gliding  out  unperceived;  having  accom- 
plished this,  he  looked  cautiously  about  him,  and 
finding  himself  not  observed,  he  turned  his  steps 
to  a glen  which  lay  about  half  a mile  below  his 
father’s  house. 

At  the  lowest  skirt  of  this  little  valley,  pro- 
tected by  a few  spreading  hawthorns,  stood  a 
small  white  farm-house,  more  immediately  shaded 
by  a close  row  of  elder,  or  boor-tree,  which  hung 
over  one  of  the  gables,  and  covered  the  garden 
gate,  together  with  a neat  grassy  seat,  that  was 
built  between  the  gate  and  the  gable.  It  was  im- 
peiwious  to  sun  and  rain : one  of  those  pretty  spots 
which  present  themselves  on  the  road-side  in  the 
country,  and  strike  the  eye  with  a pleasing  notion 
of  comfort;  especially  when,  during  a summer 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


349 


shower,  the  cocks  and  hens  of  the  little  yard  are 
seen  by  the  traveller  who  takes  sheltpr  under 
it,  huddled  up  in  silence,  the  white  dust  quite 
dry,  whilst  the  heavy  shower  patters  upon  the 
leaves  above,  and  upon  the  dark  drenched  road 
beside  him. 

Under  the  shade  of  this  sat  an  interesting 
girl,  aged  about  seventeen,  named  Susan  Connor. 
She  was  slender,  and  not  above  the  middle  size; 
but  certainly,  in  point  of  form  and  feature,  such 
as  might  be  called  beautiful — handsome  she 
unquestionably  was;  but  be  that  as  it  may,  with 
this  rustic  beauty  the  object  of  Denis’s  stolen 
visit  was  connected.  She  sat  knitting  under  the 
shade  of  elder  which  we  have  described,  a sweet 
picture  of  innocence  and  candour.  Our  hero’s 
face,  as  he  approached  her,  was  certainly  a tine 
study  for  any  one  who  wished  to  embody  the  sad 
and  the  ludicrous.  Desperate  was  the  conflict 
between  pedantry  and  feeling  which  he  experi- 
enced. His  manner  appeared  more  pompous 
and  affected  than  ever;  yet  was  there  blended 
with  the  flush  of  approaching  triumph  as  a candi- 
date, such  woe-begone  shades  of  distress  flitting 
occasionally  across  his  features,  as  rendered  his 
countenance  inscrutably  enigmatical. 

When  the  usual  interchange  of  preliminary 
conversation  had  passed,  Denis  took  his  seat  be- 
side her  on  the  grassy  bench;  and  after  looking 
in  several  directions,  and  giving  half  a dozen 
hems,  he  thus  accosted  her : — 

“ Susan,  cream  of  my  affections,  I may 
venture  to  conjecture  that  the  fact,  or  factum. 


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of  my  being  the  subject  of  a fama  clamosa  to- 
day, has  not  yet  reached  your  ears?  ” 

“ Now,  Denis,  you  are  at  your  deep  laming 
from  the  books  again.  Can’t  you  keep  your 
reading  for  them  that  undherstands  it,  an’  not  be 
spakin’  so  Englified  to  a simple  girl  like  me?  ” 

“ There  is  logic  in  that  same,  however.  Do 
you  know,  Susan,  I have  often  thought  that,  pro- 
vided always  you  had  resaved  proper  instruction, 
you  would  have  made  a first-rate  classical 
scholar.” 

“ So  you  tould  me,  Denis,  the  Sunday  evening 
we  exchanged  the  promise.  But  sure  when  you 
get  me,  I can  larn  it.  W on’t  you  tache  me,  Denis  ?” 

She  turned  her  laughing  eyes  archly  at  him 
as  she  spoke,  with  a look  of  joy  and  affection: 
it  was  a look,  indeed,  that  staggered  for  the 
moment  every  ecclesiastical  resolution  within  him. 
He  returned  her  glance,  and  ran  over  the  features 
of  her  pure  and  beautiful  countenance  for  some 
minutes;  then,  placing  his  open  hand  upon  his 
eyes,  he  seemed  buried  in  reflection.  At  length 
he  addressed  her : — 

“ Susan,  I am  thinking  of  that  same  Sunday 
evening  on  which  we  exchanged  the  hand- 
promise.  I say,  Susan, — dimidium  animce  mece — 
I am  in  the  act  of  meditating  upon  it ; and  sorry 
am  I to  be  compel — to  be  under  the  neces — to  be 
reduced,  I say — that  is  redactus  in  the  lamed 

langua : in  other  words — or  terms,  indeed,  is 

more  elegant — in  other  terms,  then,  Susan,  I fear 
that  what  I just  now  alluded  to,  touching  the 
fama  clamosa  which  is  current  about  me  this  day. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


351 


will  render  that  promise  a. rather  premature  one 
on  both  our  parts.  Some  bachelors  in  my  situa- 
tion might  be  disposed  to  call  it  foolish,  but  I 
entertain  a reverence — a veneration  for  the  feel- 
ings of  the  feminine  sex,  that  inclines  me  to  use 
the  mildest  and  most  classical  language  in 
divulging  the  change  that  has  taken  place  in  my 
fortunes  since  I saw  you  last.’’ 

“ What  do  you  mane,  Denis?  ” inquired  Susan, 
suddenly  ceasing  to  knit,  and  fixing  her  eyes 
upon  him  with  a glance  of  alarm. 

“ To  be  plain,  Susy,  I find  that  Maynooth  is 
my  destination.  It  has  been  arranged  between 
my  father  and  Docthor  Finnerty,  that  I must 
become  a labourer  in  the  vineyard;  that  is,  that 
I must  become  a priest,  and  cultivate  the  grape. 
It’s  a sore  revelation  to  make  to  an  amorous 
maiden ; but  destiny  will  be  triumphant : — 

Tempora  mutantur,  nos  et  mutamur  in  illis.” 

The  poor  girl  suddenly  laid  down  the  work  on 
which  she  had  been  engaged,  her  face  became  the 
colour  of  ashes,  and  the  reply  she  was  about  to 
make  died  upon  her  lips.  She  again  resumed  her 
stocking,  but  almost  instantly  laid  it  down  a 
second  time,  and  appeared  wholly  unable  either 
to  believe  or  comprehend  what  he  said. 

“ Denis,”  she  at  length  asked,  “ did  you  say 
that  all  is  to  be  over  between  us?  ” 

“ That  was  my  insinuation,”  replied  Denis. 
“ The  fact  is,  Susy,  that  destiny  is  adverse;  clean 
against  our  union  in  the  bonds  of  matrimonial 
ecstasy.  But,  Susy,  my  charmer,  I told  you  be- 


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fore  that  you  were  not  destitute  of  logic,  and  I 
hope  you  will  bear  this  heavy  visitation  as  becomes 
a philosopher.” 

“Bear  it,  Denis!  How  ought  I to  bear  it, 
after  your  saying  and  swearing,  too,  that  neither 
father,  nor  mother,  nor  priest,  nor  any  body  else 
would  make  you  desart  me?  ” 

“ But,  Susan,  my  nightingale,  perhaps  you  are 
not  aware  that  there  is  an  authority  in  existence 
to  which  father,  mother,  and  all  must  knuckle 
down.  That  is  the  church,  Susan.  Reflect — 
dulce  decus  meum — that  the  power  of  the  church 
is  able  to  loose  and  unloose,  to  tie  and  untie,  to 
forgive  and  to  punish,  to  raise  to  the  highest 
heaven,  or  to  sink  to  the  profoundest  Tartarus. 
That  power,  Susan,  thinks  proper  to  claim  your 
unworthy  and  enamoured  swain  as  one  of  the 
brightest  Colossuses  of  her  future  glory.  The 
Irish  hierarchy  is  plased  to  look  on  me  as  a 
luminary  of  almost  superhuman  brilliancy  and 
coruscation:  my  talents  she  pronounces  to  be  of 
the  first  magnitude;  my  eloquence  classical  and 
overwhelming,  and  my  learning  only  adorned  by 
that  poor  insignificant  attribute  denominated  by 
philosophers  unfathomability  1 — hem! — hem!  ” 

“ Denis,”  replied  the  innocent  girl,  “ you 
sometimes  speak  that  I can  undherstand  you ; but 
you  oftener  spake  in  a way  that  I can  hardly 
make  out  what  you  say.  If  it’s  a thing  that  my 
love  for  you,  or  the  solemn  promise  that  passed 
between  us,  would  stand  in  your  light,  or  prevint 
you  from  higher  things  as  a priest,  I am  willing 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


353 


to — to — to  give  you  up,  whatever  I may  suffer. 
But  you  know  yourself,  that  you  brought  me  on 
from  time  to  time  undher  your  promise,  that 
nothing  would  ever  lead  you  to  lave  me  in  sor- 
row an’  disappointment.  Still,  I say,  that 

But,  Denis,  is  it  thrue  that  you  could  lave  me 
for  any  thing? 

The  innocent  confidence  in  his  truth  expressed 
by  the  simplicity  of  her  last  question,  staggered 
the  young  candidate;  that  is  to  say,  her  words, 
her  innocence,  and  her  affection  sank  deeply  into 
his  heart. 

“ Susan,”  he  replied,  “ to  tell  the  blessed  truth, 
I am  fairly  dilemma’d.  My  heart  is  in  your 
favour;  but — but — hem — you  don’t  know  the 
prospect  that  is  open  to  me.  You  don’t  know  the 
sin  of  keeping  back  such  a — a — a — galaxy  as  I 
am  from  the  church.  I say,  you  don’t  know  the 
sin  of  it.  Thafs  the  difficulty.  If  it  was  a 
common  case  it  would  be  nothing!  but  to  keep 
back  a person  like  me — a rara  avis  in  terris — from 
the  priesthood,  is  a sin  that  requires  a great  dale 
of  interest  with  the  Pope  to  have  absolved.” 

“Heaven  above  forgive  me!”  exclaimed  the 
artless  girl.  “ In  that  case  I wouldn’t  for  the 
riches  of  the  wide  earth  stand  between  you  and 
God.  But  I didn’t  know  that  before,  Denis;  and 
if  you  had  tould  me,  I think,  sooner  than  get 
into  sich  a sin  I’d  struggle  to  keep  down  my 
love  for  you,  even  although  my  heart  should 
break.” 

“ Poor  darling,”  said  Denis,  taking  her  passive 


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hand  in  his,  and  would  it  go  so  hard  with  you? 
Break  your  heart!  Do  you  love  me  so  well  as 
that,  Susan?  ” 

Susan’s  eyes  turned  on  liim  for  a moment, 
and  the  tears  which  his  question  drew  forth  gave 
it  a full  and  a touching  reply.  She  uttered  not 
a word,  but  after  a few  deep  sobs  wiped  her 
eyes,  and  endeavoured  to  compose  her  feelings. 

Denis  felt  the  influence  of  her  emotions;  he 
remained  silent  for  a short  time,  during  which, 
however,  ambition  drew  in  the  background  all 
those  dimly  splendid  visions  that  associate  them- 
selves with  the  sacerdotal  functions,  in  a country 
where  the  people  place  no  bounds  to  the  spiritual 
power  of  their  pastors. 

“Susan,”  said  he,  after  a pause,  “ do  you  know 
the  difference  between  a Christian  and  a ha- 
then?  ” 

“ Between  a Christian  an’  a hathen?  Why 
aren’t  hathens  all  sinners?  ” 

“ Very  right.  Faith,  Susan,  you  would  have 
shone  at  the  classics.  You  see,  dilecta  cordis  mei, 
or,  cordi  meo,  for  either  is  good  grammar — ^you 
see,  Susan,  the  difference  between  a Christian 
and  a hathen  is  this: — a Christian  bears  disap- 
pointments with  fortitude — ^with  what  is  denomi- 
nated Christian  fortitude;  whereas,  on  the  con- 
trary, a hathen  doesn’t  bear  disappointments  at 
all.  Now,  Susan,  it  would  cut  me  to  the  heart 
to  find  that  you  would  become  a hathen  on  this 
touching  and  trying  occasion.” 

“ I’ll  pray  to  God,  Denis.  Isn’t  that  the  way 
to  act  under  afflictions?  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


335 


“ Decidedly.  There  is  no  other  legitimate 
mode  of  quelling  a heart-ache.  And,  Susan, 
when  you  go  to  supplication  you  are  at  liberty 
to  mention  my  name — no,  not  yet;  but  if  I were 
once  consecrated  you  might.  However,  it  is  bet- 
ter to  sink  this;  say  nothing  about  me  when  you 
pray,  for,  to  tell  you  truth,  I believe  you  have 
as  much  influence  above — super  astra — as  I have. 
There  is  one  argument  which  I am  anxious  to 
press  upon  you.  It  is  a very  simple  but  a very 
respectable  one  after  all.  I am  not  all  Ireland. 
You  will  And  excellent  good  husbands  even  in 
this  parish.  There  is,  as  the  old  proverb  says, 
as  good  flsh  in  the  say  as  ever  were  caught.  Do 
you  catch  one  of  them.  For  me,  Susan,  the 
vineyard  claims  me;  I must,  as  I said,  cultivate 
the  grape.  We  must,  consequently — hem! — we 
must — hem!  hem! — consequently  strive  to  forget 
— hem! — I say,  to  forget  each  other.  It  is  a 
trial — I know — a desperate  visitation,  poor  fawn, 
upon  your  feelings;  but,  as  I said,  destiny  will 
be  triumphant.  What  is  decreed,  is  decreed — I 
must  go  to  Maynooth.” 

Susan  rose,  and  her  eyes  flashed  with  an  in- 
dignant sense  of  the  cold-blooded  manner  in 
which  he  advised  her  to  select  another  husband. 
She  was  an  ilflterate  girl,  but  the  purity  of  her 
feeling  supplied  the  delicacy  which  reading  and 
a knowledge  of  more  refined  society  would  have 
given  her. 

“ Is  it  from  your  lips,  Denis,”  she  said,  “ that 
I hear  sich  a mane  and  low-minded  an  advice? 
Or  do  you  think  that  with  my  weak,  and  I now 


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see,  foolish  heart,  settled  upon  you,  I could  turn 
round  and  fix  my  love  upon  the  first  that  might 
axe  me?  Denis,  you  promised  before  God  to  be 
mine,  and  mine  only;  you  often  said  and  swore 
that  you  loved  me  above  any  human  being;  but 
I now  see  that  you  only  intended  to  lead  me 
into  sin  and  disgrace,  for  indeed,  and  before  God, 
I don’t  think — I don’t — I don’t — believe  that 
you  ever  loved  me.” 

A burst  of  grief,  mingled  with  indignation 
and  affliction,  followed  the  words  she  had  uttered. 
Denis  felt  himself  called  on  for  a vindication, 
and  he  was  resolved  to  give  it. 

‘‘  Susan,”  he  returned,  ‘‘  your  imagination  is 
erroneous.  iBy  all  the  classical  authors  that  ever 
were  written,  you  are  antipodially  opposed  to 
facts.  What  harm  is  there,  seeing  that  you  and 
I can  never  be  joined  in  wedlock — what  harm  is 
there,  I say,  in  recommending  you  another 
hush ” 

Susan  would  hear  no  more.  She  gathered  up 
her  stocking  and  ball  of  thread,  placed  them  in 
her  apron,  went  into  her  father’s  house,  shut  and 
bolted  the  door,  and  gave  way  to  violent  grief. 
All  this  occurred  in  a moment,  and  Denis  found 
himself  excluded. 

He  did  not  wish,  however,  to  part  from  her  in 
anger;  so,  after  having  attempted  to  look  through 
the  keyhole  of  the  door,  and  applied  his  eye  in 
vain  to  the  window,  he  at  length  spoke. 

“ Is  there  anybody  within  but  yourself, 
Susy?” 

He  received  no  reply. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


357 


“ I say,  Susy — dilecta  juventutis  mece — 
touching  the  recommendation — now  don’t  be 
ciying — touching  the  recommendation  of  another 
husband,  by  all  the  classics  that  ever  were  mis- 
translated, I meant  nothing  but  the  purest  of 
consolation.  If  I did,  may  I be  reduced  to 
primeval  and  aboriginal  ignorance!  But  you 
know  yourself,  that  they  never  prospered  who 
prevented  a rara  avis  like  me  from  entering  the 
church — from  labouring  in  tbe  vineyard,  and 
cultivating  the  grape.  Don’t  be  hathenisb;  but 
act  with  a philosophy  suitable  to  so  dignified  an 
occasion — Farewell!  Made  vii'tute,  and  be 
firm.  I swear  again  by  all  the  class ” 

The  appearance  of  a neighbour  caused  him  to 
cut  short  his  oath.  Seeing  that  the  man  ap- 
proached the  house,  he  drew  oif,  and  returned 
home,  more  seriously  affected  by  Susan’s  agita- 
tion than  he  was  willing  to  admit  even  to  himself. 

This  triumph  over  his  affection  was,  in  fact, 
only  the  conquest  of  one  passion  over  another. 
His  attachment  to  Susan  Connor  was  certainly 
sincere,  and  ere  the  prospects  of  his  entering 
jNIaynooth  were  unexpectedly  brought  near  him, 
by  the  interference  of  Father  Finnerty,  his 
secret  purpose  all  along  had  been  to  enter  with 
her  into  the  state  of  matrimony,  rather  than  into 
the  church.  Ambition,  however,  is  beyond  all 
comparison  the  most  powerful  principle  of  hu- 
man conduct,  and  so  Denny  found  it.  Although 
his  unceremonious  abandonment  of  Susan  ap- 
peared heartless  and  cruel,  yet  it  was  not  effected 
on  his  part  without  profound  sorrow  and  re- 


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morse.  The  two  principles,  when  they  began  to 
struggle  in  his  heart  for  supremacy,  resembled 
the  rival  destinies  of  Csesar  and  Mark  Anthony. 
Love  declined  in  the  presence  of  ambition;  and 
this,  in  proportion  as  all  the  circumstances  cal- 
culated to  work  upon  the  strong  imagination  of 
a young  man  naturally  fond  of  power,  began  to 
assume  an  appearance  of  reality.  To  be  in  the 
course  of  a few  years  a bond  fide  priest;  to  possess 
unlimited  sway  over  the  fears  and  principles  of 
the  people;  to  be  endowed  with  spiritual  gifts 
to  he  knew  not  what  extent;  and  to  enjoy  him- 
self as  he  had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  Father 
Finnerty  and  his  curate  do,  in  the  full  swing  of 
convivial  pleasure,  upon  the  ample  hospitality  of 
those  who,  in  addition  to  this,  were  ready  to  kiss 
the  latchet  of  his  shoes — were,  it  must  be  ad- 
mitted, no  inconsiderable  motives  in  influencing 
the  conduct  of  a person  reared  in  an  humble  con- 
dition of  life.  The  claims  of  poor  Susan,  her 
modesty,  her  attachment,  and  her  beauty — were 
all  insufficient  to  prevail  against  such  a host  of 
opposing  motives;  and  the  consequence,  though 
bitter,  and  subversive  of  her  happiness,  was  a 
final  determination  on  the  part  of  Denny,  to  ac- 
quaint her,  with  a kind  of  ex-officio  formality, 
that  all  intercourse  upon  the  subject  of  their 
mutual  attachment  must  cease  between  them. 
Notwithstanding  his  boasted  knowledge,  how- 
ever, he  was  ignorant  of  sentiment,  and  accord- 
ingly confined  himself,  as  I have  intimated,  to  a 
double  species  of  argument;  that  is  to  say,  first, 
the  danger  and  sin  of  opposing  the  wishes  of  the 


TRAITS  AND  STORIDS 


359 


church  which  had  claimed  him,  as  he  said,  to 
labour  in  the  vineyard;  and  secondly,  the  un- 
doubted fact,  that  there  were  plenty  of  good  hus- 
bands besides  himself  in  the  world,  from  some 
one  of  which,  he  informed  her,  he  had  no  doubt, 
she  could  be  accommodated. 

In  the  meantime,  her  image,  meek,  and  fair, 
and  uncomplaining,  would  from  time  to  time 
glide  into  his  imagination;  and  the  melody  of  her 
voice  send  its  music  once  more  to  his  vacillating 
heart.  He  usually  paused  then,  and  almost  con- 
sidered himself  under  the  influence  of  a dream; 
but  ambition,  with  its  train  of  shadowy  honours, 
would  immediately  present  itself,  and  Susan  was 
again  forgotten. 

When  he  rejoined  the  company,  to  whom  he 
had  given  the  slip,  he  found  them  all  gone,  ex- 
cept about  six  or  eight  whom  his  father  had  com- 
pelled to  stop  for  dinner.  His  mind  was  now 
much  lighter  than  it  had  been  before  his  inter- 
view with  Susan,  nor  were  his  spirits  at  all  de- 
pressed by  perceiving  that  a new  knife  and  fork 
lay  glittering  upon  the  dresser  for  his  own  par- 
ticular use. 

“ Why,  thin,  where  have  you  been  all  this 
time,”  said  the  father,  “ an’  we  wantin’  to  know 
whether  you’d  like  the  mutton  to  be  boiled  or 
roasted?  ” 

“ I was  soliloquising  in  the  glen  below,”  re- 
plied Denny,  once  more  resuming  his  pedantry, 
“ meditating  upon  the  transparency  of  all  human 
events;  but  as  for  the  beef  and  mutton,  I advise 
you  to  boil  the  beef,  and  roast  the  mutton,  or 


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IRELAND 


vice  versa,  to  boil  the  mutton,  and  roast  the  beef. 
But  I persave  my  mother  has  anticipated  me, 
and  boiled  them  both  with  that  flitch  of  bacon 
that’s  playing  the  vagrant  in  the  big  pot  there. 
Tria  juncta  in  uno,  as  Horace  says  in  the 
Epodes,  when  expatiating  upon  the  Roman  Em- 
perors— ehem!  ” 

“ Misther  Denis,”  said  one  of  those  present, 
“ maybe  you’d  tell  us  upon  the  watch,  what  the 
hour  is,  if  you  plase.  Sir;  myself  never  can  know 
right  at  all,  except  by  the  shadow  of  the  sun 
from  the  corner  of  our  own  gavel.” 

“ Why,”  replied  Denis,  pulling  it  out  with 
much  pomp  of  manner,  “ it’s  just  half -past  two 
to  a quarter  of  a minute,  and  a few  seconds.” 

“ Why  thin  what  a quare  tiling  entirely  a 
watch  is,”  the  other  continued;  “ now  what  makes 
you  hould  it  to  your  ear,  Misther  Denis,  if  you 
plase?  ” 

“ The  efficient  cause  of  that,  Larry,  is,  that 
the  drum  of  the  ear,  you  persave — the  drum  of 
the  ear — is  enabled  to  catch  the  intonations  pro- 
duced by  the  machinery  of  its  internal  operations 
— otherwise  the  fact  of  applying  it  to  the  ear 
would  be  unnecessary— altogether  unnecessary.” 
“Dear  me!  see  what  it  is  to  have  the  knowl- 
edge, any  way!  But  isn’t  it  quare  how  it  moves 
of  itself  like  a livin’  crathur?  How  is  that, 
Misther  Denis?  ” 

“ Why,  Larry, — ehem — you  see  the  motions 
of  it  are — that  is — the  works  or  operations,  are 
all  continually  going;  and  sure  it  is  from  that 
explanation  that  we  say  a watch  goes  well. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


30 1 

That’s  more  than  you  ever  knew  before,  Larry.” 

“ Indeed  it  surely  is,  Sir,  an’  is  much  oblaged 
to  you,  Misther  Denis;  sure  if  I ever  come  to 
wear  a watch  in  my  fob.  I’ll  know  something 
about  it,  anyhow.” 

For  the  remainder  of  that  day  Denis  was  as 
learned  and  consequential  as  ever;  his  friends, 
when  their  hearts  were  opened  by  his  father’s 
hospitality,  all  promised  him  substantial  aid  in 
mone}%  and  in  presents  of  such  articles  as  they 
supposed  might  be  serviceable  to  him  in  Ma}- 
nooth.  Denny  received  their  proffers  of  sup- 
port with  suitable  dignity  and  gratitude.  A 
scene  of  bustle  and  preparation  now  commenced 
among  them,  nor  was  Denny  himxSelf  the  least 
engaged;  for  it  somehow  happened,  that  not- 
withstanding his  profound  erudition,  he  felt  it 
necessary  to  read  night  and  day  in  order  to  pass 
with  more  eclat  the  examination  which  he  had  to 
stand  before  the  bishop  ere  his  appointment  to 
Majmooth.  This  ordeal  was  to  occur  upon  a 
day  fixed  for  the  purpose,  in  the  ensuing  month ; 
and  indeed  Denis  occupied  as  much  of  the  inter- 
vening period  in  study  as  his  circumstances  would 
permit.  His  situation  was,  at  this  crisis,  cer- 
tainly peculiar.  Every  person  related  to  him  in 
the  shghtest  degree  contrived  to  revive  their  re- 
lationship; his  former  schoolfellows,  on  hearing 
that  he  was  actually  destined  to  be  of  the  church, 
renewed  their  acquaintance  with  him,  and  those 
who  had  been  servants  to  his  father,  took  the  lib- 
erty of  speaking  to  him  upon  the  strength  of  that 
fact.  No  child,  to  the  remotest  shade  of  affinity. 


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was  born,  for  which  he  did  not  stand  godfather; 
nieces  and  nephews  thickened  about  him,  all  with 
remarkable  talents,  and  many  of  them,  partic- 
ularly of  the  nieces,  said  to  be  exceedingly  gen- 
teel— very  thrifty  for  their  ages,  and  likely  to 
make  excellent  housekeepers.  A strong  likeness 
to  himself  was  also  pointed  out  in  the  features  of 
his  nephews,  one  of  whom  had  his  born  nose — 
another  his  eyes — and  a third  again  had  his  brave 
high-flown  way  with  him.  In  short,  he  began  to 
feel  some  of  the  inconveniences  of  greatness ; and, 
like  it,  to  be  surrounded  by  cringing  servility 
and  meanness.  When  he  went  to  chapel  he  was 
beset,  and  followed  from  place  to  place,  by  a 
retinue  of  friends  who  were  all  anxious  to  secure 
to  themselves  the  most  conspicuous  marks  of  his 
notice.  It  was  the  same  thing  in  fair  or  market; 
they  contended  with  each  other  who  should  do 
him  most  honour,  or  afford  to  him  and  his  father’s 
immediate  family  the  most  costly  treat,  ac- 
companied by  the  grossest  expressions  of  flat- 
tery. Every  male  infant  born  among  them  was 
called  Dionysius;  and  every  female  one  Susan, 
after  his  favourite  sister.  All  this,  to  a lad  like 
Denis,  already  remarkable  for  his  vanity,  was 
very  trying;  or  rather,  it  absolutely  turned  his 
brain,  and  made  him  probably  as  finished  a speci- 
men of  pride,  self-conceit,  and  domineering  ar- 
rogance, mingled  with  a kind  of  lurking  humor- 
ous contempt  for  his  cringing  relations,  as  could 
be  displayed  in  the  person  of  some  shallow  but 
knavish  prime  minister,  surrounded  by  his  selfish 
sycophants,  whom  he  encourages  and  despises. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


3G3 


At  home  he  was  idolised — overwhelmed  witli 
respect  and  deference.  The  slightest  intimation 
of  his  wish  was  a command  to  them ; the  beef,  and 
fowl,  and  mutton,  were  at  hand  in  all  the  variety 
of  culinary  skill,  and  not  a soul  in  the  house  durst 
lay  a hand  upon  his  knife  and  fork  but  himself. 
In  the  morning*,  when  the  family  were  to  be  seen 
around  the  kitchen  table  at  their  plain  but  sub- 
stantial breakfast,  Denis  was  lording  it  in  soli- 
tary greatness  over  an  excellent  breakfast  of  tea> 
and  eggs  in  another  room. 

It  was  now,  too,  that  the  king’s  English,  as 
well  as  the  mutton,  was  carved  and  hacked  to 
some  purpose;  epithets  prodigiously  long  and 
foreign  to  the  purpose  were  pressed  into  his  con- 
versation, for  no  other  reason  than  because  those 
to  whom  he  spoke  could  not  understand  them ; but 
the  principal  portion  of  his  time  was  devoted  to 
study.  The  bishop,  he  had  heard,  was  a sound 
scholar,  and  exceedingly  scrupulous  in  recom- 
mending any  to  Maynooth,  except  such  as  were 
well  versed  in  the  preparatory  course.  Inde- 
pendently of  this,  he  was  anxious,  he  said,  to  dis- 
tinguish him.self  in  his  examination,  and,  if  pos- 
sible, to  sustain  as  high  a character  with  the  bishop 
and  his  fellow-students,  as  he  did  among  the 
peasantry  of  his  own  neighbourhood. 

At  length  the  day  approached.  The  bishop^s 
residence  was  not  distant  more  than  a few  hours’ 
ride,  and  he  would  have  sufficient  time  to  arrive 
there,  pass  his  examination,  and  return  in  time 
for  dinner.  On  the  eve  of  his  departure,  old 
Denis  invited  Father  Finnerty,  liis  curate,  and 


364 


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about  a dozen  relations  and  friends,  to  dine  with 
him  the  next  day;  when — Denis  having  sur- 
mounted the  last  obstacle  to  the  accomplishment 
of  his  hopes — their  hearts  could  open  without  a 
single  reflection  to  check  the  exuberance  of  their 
pride,  hospitahty,  and  happiness. 

I have  often  said  to  my  friends,  and  I now  re- 
peat it  in  print,  that  after  all,  there  is  no  people 
bound  up  so  strongly  to  each  other  by  the  ties 
of  domestic  life,  as  the  Irish.  On  the  night 
which  preceded  this  joyous  and  important  day,  a 
spirit  of  silent  but  tender  affection  dwelt  in  every 
heart  of  the  O’Shaughnessys.  The  great  point 
of  interest  was  Denis.  He  himself  was  serious, 
and  evidently  laboured  under  that  strong  anx- 
iety so  natural  to  a youth  in  his  circumstances. 
A Roman  Catholic  bishop,  too,  is  a personage 
looked  upon  by  the  people  with  a kind  of  feeling 
that  embodies  in  it  awe,  reverence,  and  fear. 
Though,  in  this  country,  an  humble  man  possess- 
ing neither  the  rank  in  society,  outward  splen- 
dour, nor  the  gorgeous  profusion  of  wealth  and 
pomp  which  characterise  a prelate  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church;  yet  it  is  unquestionable  that  the 
gloomy  dread,  and  sense  of  formidable  power 
with  which  they  impress  the  minds  of  the  submis- 
sive peasantry,  immeasurably  surpass  the  more 
legitimate  influence  which  any  Protestant  digni- 
tary could  exercise  over  those  who  stand,  with  re- 
spect to  him,  in  a more  rational  and  independent 
position. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Denis,  who  prac- 
tised upon  ignorant  people  that  petty  despotism 


TKAITS  AND  STORIES 


3G5 


for  which  he  was  so  remarkable,  should  now,  on 
coming  in  contact  with  great  spiritual  authority, 
ado2)t  his  own  princi|)les,  and  relaj^se  from  the 
proud  i^edant  into  the  cowardly  slave.  True  it 
is  that  he  j^resented  a most  melancholy  sjDecimen 
of  independence  in  a crisis  where  moral  courage 
was  so  necessary:  but  his  dread  of  the  coming 
day  w^as  judiciously  locked  up  in  his  own  bosom. 
His  silence  and  aj)prehension  w^ere  imputed  to 
the  workings  of  a mind  learnedly  engaged  in  ar- 
ranging the  vast  stores  of  knowledge  with  which 
it  was  so  abundantly  stocked;  his  moody  picture 
of  the  bishop’s  brow;  his  reflection  that  he  was 
going  before  so  sacred  a person,  as  a candidate 
for  the  church,  with  his  heart  yet  redolent  of 
earthly  affection  for  Susan  Connor;  his  appre- 
hension that  the  bisho2)’s  spiritual  scent  might 
sagaciously  smell  it  out,  were  all  put  down  by  the 
family  to  the  credit  of  uncommon  learning, 
wdiich,  as  his  mother  observed  truly,  “ often  makes 
men  do  quare  things.”  His  embarrassments, 
however,  in  as  much  as  they  were  ascribed  by 
them  to  wrong  causes,  endeared  him  more  to  their 
hearts  than  ever.  Because  he  spoke  little, 
neither  the  usual  noise  nor  bustle  of  a large  fam- 
ily disturbed  the  silence  of  the  house : every  word 
was  uttered  that  evening  in  a low  tone,  at  once 
expressive  of  tenderness  and  respect.  The  fam- 
ily sup|)er  was  tea,  in  compliment  to  Denis ; and 
they  all  partook  of  it  with  him.  Nothing  hum- 
bles the  mind,  and  gives  the  natural  feelings 
their  full  play,  so  well  as  a struggle  in  life,  or  the 
appearance  of  its  approach. 


366 


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“ Denis/’  said  the  father,  ‘‘  the  time  wiU  come 
when  we  won’t  have  you  at  all  among  us;  hut, 
thank  goodness,  you’ll  be  in  a betther  place.” 

Denis  heard  him  not,  and  consequently  made 
no  reply. 

“ They  say  Maynewth’s  a tryin’  place,  too,” 
he  continued,  “ an’  I’d  be  sorry  to  see  him  pulled 
down  to  an  atomy,  like  some  of  the  scarecrows 
that  come  out  of  it.  I hope  you’ll  bear  it  bet- 
ther.” 

“ Do  you  speak  to  me?  ” said  Denis,  awaking 
out  of  a reverie. 

“ I do,  Sir/^  replied  the  father;  and  as  he  ut- 
tered the  words  the  son  perceived  that  his  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  him  with  an  expression  of  affec- 
tionate sorrow  and  pride. 

The  youth  was  then  in  a serious  mood,  free 
from  the  dominion  of  that  learned  mania  under 
which  he  had  so  frequently  signalised  himself: 
the  sorrow  of  his  father,  and  a consciousness  of 
the  deep  affection  and  unceasing  kindness  which 
he  had  ever  experienced  from  him,  joined  to  a 
recollection  of  their  former  friendly  disputes  and 
companionship,  touched  Denny  to  the  quick. 
But  the  humility  with  which  he  applied  to  him. 
the  epithet  Sir,  touched  him  most.  What! 
thought  he — ought  my  affectionate  father  to  be 
thrown  to  such  a distance  from  a son,  who  owes 
everything  to  his  love  and  goodness!  The 
thought  of  his  stooping  so  humbly  before  him 
smote  the  boy’s  heart,  and  the  tears  glistened  in 
his  eyes. 

“ Father,”  said  he,  “ you  have  been  kind  and 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


3G7 


good  to  me,  beyond  my  deserts;  surely  then  I 
eannot  bear  to  bear  you  address  me  in  that  man- 
ner, as  if  we  were  both  strangers.  Nor  while  I 
am  with  you,  shall  any  of  you  so  address  me. 
Remember  that  I am  still  your  son  and  their 
brother.’’ 

The  natural  affection  displayed  in  this  speech 
soon  melted  the  whole  family  into  tears — not  ex- 
cepting Denis  himself,  who  felt  that  grief  which 
we  experience  when  about  to  be  separated  for  the 
first  time  from  those  we  love. 

“ Come  over,  avourneen,”  said  his  mother,  dry- 
ing her  eyes  wdth  the  corner  of  her  check  apron; 
“ come  over,  acushla  machree,  an’  sit  beside  me ; 
sure  although  we’re  sorry  for  you,  Denis,  it’s 
proud  our  hearts  are  of  you,  an’  good  right  we 
have,  a suilish!  Come  over,  an’  let  me  be  near 
you  as  long  as  I can,  any  way.” 

Denis  placed  himself  beside  her,  and  the  proud 
mother  drew  his  head  over  upon  her  bosom,  and 
bedewed  his  face  with  a gush  of  tears. 

“ They  say,”  she  observed,  “ that  it’s  sinful  to 
shed  tears  when  there’s  no  occasion  for  grief;  but 
I hope  it’s  no  sin  to  cry  when  one’s  heart  is  full 
of  somethin’  that  brings  them  to  one’s  eyes, 
whether  they  will  or  not.” 

“ Mave,”  said  the  father,  Fll  miss  him  more 
nor  any  of  you;  but  sure  he’ll  often  send  letters 
to  us  from  Maynewth,  to  tell  us  how  he’s  gettin’ 
on;  an’  we’ll  be  proud  enough,  never  fear.” 

“ You’ll  miss  me,  Denis,”  said  his  favourite 
sister,  who  was  also  called  Susan;  “for  you’ll 
find  no  one  in  Maynewth  that  will  keep  your 


368 


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linen  so  white  as  I did:  but  never  fear,  I’ll  be 
always  knittin’  you  stockins;  an’  every  year  I’ll 
make  you  half-a-dozen  shirts,  an’  you’ll  think 
them  more  natural  nor  other  shirts,  when  you 
know  they  came  from  your  own  home — from 
them  that  you  love!  Won’t  you,  Denis?  ” 

‘‘I  will,  Susy;  and  I will  love  the  shirts  for 
the  sake  of  the  hands  that  made  them.” 

“ And  I won’t  allow  Susy  Connor  to  help  me 
as  she  used  to  do ; they’ll  be  all  Alley’s  sewin’  and 
mine.” 

“ The  poor  colleen — listen  to  her!  ” exclaimed 
the  affectionate  father:  “ indeed  you  will,  Susy; 
ay,  and  hem  his  cravats,  that  we’ll  send  him  ready 
made  an’  all.” 

“ Yes,”  replied  Denis,  “ but  as  to  Susy  Connor 
— ^hem — ^why,  upon  considera — ^he — hem — ^upon 
second  thoughts,  I don’t  see  why  you  should  pre- 
vent her  from  helping  you;  she’s  a neighbour’s 
daughter,  and  a weU-wisher,  of  whose  prosperity 
in  life  I’d  always  wish  to  hear.” 

“ The  poor  girl’s  very  bad  in  her  health,  for 
the  last  three  weeks,”  observed  his  other  sister. 
Alley : “ she  has  lost  her  appetite,  an’  is  cast  down 
entirely  in  her  spirits.  You  ought  to  go  an’  see 
her,  Denis,  before  you  set  out  for  the  college,  if 
it  was  only  on  her  dacent  father’s  account. 
When  I was  tellin’  her  yisterday  that  you  wor  to 
get  the  bishop’s  letter  for  Maynewth  to-morrow, 
she  was  in  so  poor  a state  of  health  that  she  nearly 
fainted.  I had  to  give  her  a drink  of  wather, 
and  sprinkle  her  face  with  it.  Well,  she’s  a purty 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  369 

I 

crathur  an’  a good  girl,  an’  was  always  that,  dear 
knows!  ” 

“ Denis  achree,”  said  his  mother,  somewhat 
alarmed,  “ are  you  any  way  unwell?  Why  your 
heart’s  batin’  like  a new  catched  chicken!  Are 
you  sick,  acushla;  or  are  you  used  to  this?  ” 

“ It  won’t  signify,”  replied  Denis,  gently  rais- 
ing himself  from  his  mother’s  arms,  “ I will  sit 
up,  mother;  it’s  but  a sudden  stroke  or  two  of 
tremor  cordis,  produced  probably  by  having  my 
mind  too  much  upon  one  object.” 

“ I tliink,”  said  his  father,  “ he  will  be  the  bet- 
ther  of  a little  drop  of  the  poteen  made  into 
punch,  an’  for  that  matter  we  can  all  take  a sup 
of  it ; as  there’s  no  one  here  but  ourselves,  we  will 
have  it  snug  an’  comfortable.” 

Nothing  resembles  an  April  day  more  than  the 
general  disposition  of  the  Irish  people.  When 
old  Denis’s  proposal  for  the  punch  was  made, 
the  gloom  which  hung  over  the  family — originat- 
ing, as  it  did,  more  in  joy  than  in  sorrow — soon 
began  to  disappear.  Their  countenances  gradu- 
ally brightened,  by  and  by  mirth  stole  out,  and 
ere  the  punch  had  accomplished  its  first  round, 
laughter,  and  jest,  and  good-humour — each, 
in  consequence  of  the  occasion,  more  buoyant 
and  vivacious  than  usual,  were  in  full  play. 
Denis  himself,  when  animated  by  the  unexcised 
liquor,  threw  off  his  dejection,  and  ere  the  night 
was  half  spent,  found  himself  in  the  highest 
region  of  pedantry. 

“ I would  not,”  said  he,  “ turn  my  back  upon 


III— 24 


370 


IRELAND 


any  other  candidate  in  the  province,  in  point  of 
preparatory  excellence  and  ardency  of  imagina- 
tion. I say,  sitting  here  beside  you,  my  worthy 
and  logical  father,  I would  not  retrograde  from 
any  candidate  for  the  honours  of  the  Catholic 
Church  in  the  pro\dnce — in  the  kingdom — in 
Europe;  and  it  is  not  improbable  but  I might 
progradiate  another  step,  and  say  Christendom 
at  large.  And  now  what’s  a candidate  ? Father, 
you  have  some  apprehension  in  you,  and  are  a 
passable  second-hand  controversialist — ^what’s  a 
candidate?  Will  you  tell  me?  ” 

“ I give  it  up,  Denis;  but  you’ll  tell  us.” 

“ Yes,  I will  tell  you.  Candidate  signifies  a 
man  dressed  in  fustian;  it  comes  from  candidus, 
which  is  partly  Greek,  partly  Latin,  and  partly 
Hebrew.  It  was  the  learned  designation  for 
Irish  linen,  too,  which  in  the  time  of  the  Romans 
was  in  great  request  at  Rome ; but  it  was  changed 
to  signify  fustian,  because  it  was  found  that 
everything  a man  promised  on  becoming  a can- 
didate for  any  office,  turned  out  to  be  only  fustian 
when  he  got  it.” 

“ Denis,  avourneen,”  said  his  mother,  “ the 
greatest  comfort  myself  has  is  to  be  thinkin’  that 
when  you’re  a priest,  you  can  be  sayin’  masses 
for  my  poor  sinful  sowl.” 

“Yes,  there  is  undoubtedly  comfort  in  that  re- 
flection; and  depend  upon  it,  my  dear  mother, 
that  I’ll  be  sure  to  clinch  your  masses  in  the 
surest  mode.  I’ll  not  fly  over  them  like  Camilla 
across  a field  of  potato  oats,  without  discommod- 
ing a single  walk,  as  too  many  of  my  worthy 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


371 


brethren — I mane  as  too  many  of  those  whose 
worthy  brother  I will  soon  be — do  in  this  pres- 
ent year  of  grace.  I’m  no  fool  at  the  Latin,  but, 
as  I’m  an  unworthy  candidate  for  Maynooth,  I 
cannot  even  understand  every  fifteenth  word 
they  say  when  reading  mass,  independently  of 
the  utter  scorn  with  which  they  treat  those  two 
scholastic  old  worthies,  called  Syntax  and  Pros- 
ody.” 

“ Denis,”  said  the  father,  “ nothing  would  give 
me  greater  delight  than  to  be  present  at  your  first 
mass,  an’  your  first  sarmon;  and  next  to  that 
would  I like  to  be  stumpin’  about  wid  a dacent 
staff  in  my  hand,  maybe  wid  a bit  of  silver  on  the 
head  of  it,  takin’  care  of  your  place  when  you’d 
have  a parish.” 

“ At  all  events,  if  you’re  not  with  me,  father. 
I’ll  keep  you  comfortable  wherever  you’ll  be, 
whether  in  this  world  or  the  other;  for,  plase 
goodness.  I’ll  have  some  influence  in  both. — 
When  I get  a parish,  however,  it  is  not  improb- 
able that  I may  have  occasion  to  see  company; 
the  neighbouring  gentlemen  will  be  apt  to  relish 
my  society,  particularly  those  who  are  addicted 
to  conviviality;  and  our  object  will  be  to  render 
ourselves  as  populous  as  possible;  now,  whether 
in  that  case  it  would  be  compatible — but  never 
fear,  father,  wliilst  I have  the  means,  you  or  one 
of  the  family  shall  never  want.” 

“Will  you  let  the  people  be  far  behind  in  their 
dues,  Denis?  ” inquired  Brian. 

“No,  no — leave  that  point  to  my  management. 
Depend  upon  it.  I’ll  have  them  like  mice  before 


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me — ready  to  run  into  the  first  augerhole  they 
meet.  I’ll  collect  lots  of  oats,  and  get  as  much 
yarn  every  year  as  would  clothe  three  regiments 
of  mihtia,  or  for  that  matther,  of  dragoons.  I’ll 
appoint  my  stations,  too,  in  the  snuggest  farmers’ 
houses  in  the  parish,  just  as  Father  Finnerty,  our 
worthy  parochial  priest,  ingeniously  contrives  to 
do.  And,  to  revert  secondarily  to  the  collection 
of  the  oats.  I’ll  talk  liberally  to  the  Protestant 
Boddaghs ; give  the  Presbyterians  a learned 
homily  upon  civil  and  religious  freedom;  make 
hard  hits  with  them  at  that  Incubus,  the  Estab- 
lished Church;  and,  never  fear,  but  I shall  fill 
bag  after  bag  with  good  corn  from  many  of  both 
creeds.” 

“ That,”  said  Brian,  “ will  be  givin’  them  the 
bag  to  hould  in  airnest.” 

“No,  Brian,  but  it  will  be  makin’  them  fill  the 
bag  when  I hold  it,  which  will  be  better  still.” 

“ But,”  said  Susan,  “ who’ll  keep  house  for 
you?  You  know  that  a priest  can’t  live  widout  a 
housekeeper.” 

“ That,  Susy,”  replied  Denis,  “ is,  and  will  be 
the  most  difficult  point  on  which  to  accomplish 
anything  like  a satisfactory  determination.  I 
have  nieces,  enough,  however.  There’s  Peter 
Finnegan’s  eldest  daughter,  Mary,  and  Hugh 
Tracy’s  Ailsey — (to  whom  he  added  about  a 
dozen  and  a half  more) — together  with  several 
yet  to  be  endowed  with  existence,  all  of  whom 
will  be  brisk  candidates  for  the  situation.” 

“ I don’t  think,”  replied  Mrs.  O’Shaughnessy, 
“ that  you’ll  ever  get  any  one  who’d  be  more  com- 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


373 


fortable  about  you  nor  your  own  ould  mother. 
What  do  you  think  of  taldn’  myself,  Denis?  ’’ 

“ Ay,  hut  consider  the  accomplishments  in  the 
cidinary  art — in  re  vel  in  arte  culiriaria — which 
will  be  necessary  for  my  housekeeper  to  know. 
How  would  you,  for  instance,  dress  a dinner  for 
the  bishop  if  he  happened  to  pay  me  a visit,  as 
you  may  be  certain  he  will?  How  would  you 
make  pies  and  puddings,  and  disport  your  fancy 
through  all  the  varieties  of  roast  and  boil?  How 
would  you  dress  a fowl  that  it  would  stand  upon 
a dish  as  if  it  was  going  to  dance  a hornpipe? 
How  would  you  amalgamate  the  different  genera 
of  wine  with  boiling  fluid  and  crystallized  sac- 
charine matter?  How  would  you  dispose  of  the 
various  dishes  upon  the  table  according  to  high 
life  and  mathematics?  Wouldn’t  you  be  too  old 
to  bathe  my  feet  when  I’d  he  unwell?  Wouldn’t 
you  be  too  old  to  bring  me  my  whey  in  the  morn- 
ing as  soon  as  I’d  awake,  perhaps  with  a severe 
head-ache,  after  the  plenary  indulgence  of  a 
clerical  compotation?  Wouldn’t  you  be  too  old 
to  sit  up  till  the  middle  of  the  nocturnal  hour, 
awaiting  my  arrival  home?  Wouldn’t  you 
be ” 

“ Hut,  tut,  that’s  enough,  Denny,  I’d  never  do 
at  all.  No,  no,  but  I’ll  sit  a clane  dacent  ould 
woman  in  the  corner  upon  a chair  that  you’ll  get 
made  for  me.  There  I’ll  he  wid  my  pipe  and  to- 
bacco, smokin’  at  my  aise,  chattin’  to  the  sarvints, 
and  sometimes  discoorsin’  the  neighhours  that’ll 
come  to  inquire  for  you,  when  they’ll  he  sittin’  in 
the  kitchen  waitin’  till  you  get  through  your 


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office.  Jist  let  me  have  that,  Dinny  achora,  and 
I’ll  he  as  happy  as  the  day’s  long.” 

“ And  I on  the  other  side,”  said  his  father,  nat- 
urally enough  struck  with  the  happy  simplicity 
of  the  picture  which  his  wife  drew,  “ on  the  other 
side,  Mave,  a snug,  dacent  ould  man,  chattin’  to 
you  across  the  fire,  proud  to  see  the  bishop  an’ 
the  gintlemen  about  him.  An’  I wouldn’t  ax  to 
be  taken  into  the  parlour  at  all,  except,  maybe, 
when  there  would  be  nobody  there  but  yourself, 
Denis;  an’  that  your  mother  an’  I would  go  into 
the  parlour  to  get  a glass  of  punch,  or  if  it  could 
be  spared,  a little  taste  of  wine  for  novelty.” 

“ And  so  you  shall  both  of  you — you,  father, 
at  one  side  of  the  hob,  and  my  mother  here  at  the 
other,  the  king  and  queen  of  my  culinarian  do- 
minions. But  practise  taciturnity  a little — I’m 
visited  by  the  muse,  and  must  indulge  in  a strain 
of  vocal  melody — hem — ’tis  a few  lines  of  my 
own  composure,  the  offspring  of  a moment  of 
inspiration  by  the  nine  female  Heliconians ; but 
before  I incipiate,  here’s  to  my  own  celebrity  to- 
morrow, and  afterwards  all  your  healths ! ” 

He  then  proceeded  to  sing  in  his  best  style  a 
song  composed,  as  he  said,  by  himself,  but  which, 
as  the  composition  was  rather  an  eccentric  one, 
we  decline  giving. 

“ Denis,”  said  his  brother,  “ you’ll  have  great 
sport  at  the  Stations.” 

“ Yes,  Brian,  most  inimitable  specimen  of  fra- 
ternity, I do  look  into  the  futurity  of  a station 
with  great  complacency.  Hem — in  the  morning 
I rise  up  in  imagination,  and  after  reading  part 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


375 


of  my  office,  I and  my  curate — ego  et  coadjutor 
mens — or  if  I get  a large  parish,  perhaps  I and 
my  two  curates — ego  et  coadjutores  mei — order 
our  horses,  and  of  a fine  calm  summer  morning 
w^e  mount  them  as  gracefully  as  three  throopers. 
The  sun  is  up,  and  of  coorse  the  moon  is  down, 
and  the  glitter  of  the  light,  the  sparkling  of  the 
dew,  the  canticles  of  the  birds,  and  the  melodi- 
ous cawing  of  the  crows  in  Squire  Grimshaw’s 
rookery ” 

“ Why,  Denis,  is  it  this  parish  you’ll  have?  ” 

“ Silence,  silence,  till  I complate  my  rural  ideas 
— in  some  gentleman’s  rookery  at  all  events;  the 
thrush  here,  the  blackbird  there,  the  corn-craik 
chanting  its  varied  note  in  another  place,  and  so 
on.  In  the  meantime  we  reverend  sentimental- 
ists advance,  gazing  with  odoriferous  admiration 
upon  the  prospect  about  us,  and  expatiating  in 
the  purest  of  Latin  upon  the  beauties  of  unso- 
phisticated nature.  When  we  meet  the  peasants 
going  out  to  their  work,  they  put  their  hands  to 
their  hats  for  us;  but  as  I am  known  to  be  the 
parochial  priest,  it  is  to  me  the  salutation  is  di- 
rected, which  I return  with  the  air  of  a man  who 
thinks  nothing  of  such  things;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, knows  them  to  be  his  due.  The  poor  crea- 
tures of  curates,  you  must  know,  don’t  presume 
to  speak  of  themselves,  but  simply  answer  when- 
ever I condescend  to  propose  conversation,  for 
I’ll  keep  them  down,  never  fear.  In  this  edify- 
ing style  we  proceed — I a few  steps  in  advance, 
and  they  at  a respectful  distance  behind  me,  the 
heads  of  their  horses  just  to  my  saddle  skirts — 


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my  clerical  boots  as  brilliant  as  the  countenance 
of  Phoebus,  when  decked  with  rosy  smiles,  theirs 
more  subordinately  polished,  for  there  should  be 
gradations  in  all  things,  and  humility  is  the  first 
of  virtues  in  a Christian  curate.  My  bunch  of 
goold  sales  stands  out  proudly  from  my  anterior 
rotundity,  for  by  this  time,  pjase  God,  I’ll  be  get- 
ting frolicsome  and  corpulent;  they  with  only  a 
poor  bit  of  ribbon,  and  a single  two-penny  kay, 
stained  with  verdigrace.  In  the  meantime,  we 
come  within  sight  of  the  wealthy  farmer’s  house, 
wherein  we  are  to  hold  the  edifying  solemnity  of 
a station.  There  is  a joyful  appearance  of  study 
and  bustle  about  the  premises;  the  peasantry  are 
flocking  towards  it,  dressed  in  their  best  clothes; 
the  proprietors  of  the  mansion  itself  are  running 
out  to  try  if  we  are  in  appearance,  and  the  very 
smoke  disports  itself  hilariously  in  the  air,  and 
bounds  up  as  if  it  was  striving  to  catch  the  first 
glimpse  of  the  clargy.  When  we  approach,  the 
good  man — pater- familias — comes  out  to  meet 
us,  and  the  good  woman — mater- familias — comes 
curtseying  from  the  door  to  give  us  the  head 
millia  failtha.  No  sooner  do  we  persave  our- 
selves noticed,  than  out  comes  the  Brev- 
iary, and  in  a moment  we  are  at  our  morning 
devotions.  I being  the  rector,  am  particularly 
grave  and  dignified.  I do  not  speak  much,  but 
am  rather  sharp,  and  order  the  curates,  whom  I 
treat  however  with  great  respect  before  the  peo- 
ple, instantly  to  work.  This  impresses  those  who 
are  present  with  awe  and  reverence  for  us  all,  es- 
pecially for  Father  O’Shaughnessy  himself — 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


377 


(that’s  me.) — I then  take  a short  turn  or  two 
across  the  floor,  silently  perusing  my  office,  after 
which  I lay  it  aside  and  relax  into  a little  conver- 
sation with  the  people  of  the  house,  to  show  that 
I can  conciliate  by  love  as  readily  as  I can  im- 
press them  with  fear;  for,  you  see,  divide  et  im- 
pcra  is  as  aptly  applied  to  the  passions  as  to  max- 
ims of  state  policy — ehem.  I then  go  to  my 
tribunal,  and  first  hear  the  man  and  woman  and 
family  of  the  house,  and  afther  them  the  other 
penitents  according  as  they  can  come  to  me. 

“ Thus  we  go  on  absolving  in  great  style,  till 
it  is  time  for  the  matutinal  meal — vulgarly 
called  breakfast;  when  the  whiskey,  eggs,  toast, 
and  tea  as  strong  as  Hercules,  with  ham,  fowl, 
beef-steaks,  or  mutton-chops,  all  pour  in  upon  us 
in  the  full  tide  of  hospitality.  Helter-skelter, 
cut  and  thrust,  right  and  left,  we  work  away,  till 
the  appetite  reposes  itself  upon  the  cushion  of  re- 
pletion: and  off  we  go  once  more,  full  and  warm, 
to  the  delicate  employment  of  adjudicating  upon 
sin  and  transgression,  until  dinner  comes,  when, 
having  despatched  as  many  as  possible — for  the 
quicker  we  get  through  them  the  better — we  set 
about  despatching  what  is  always  worth  a ship- 
load of  such  riff-raff — videlicet,  a good  and  ex- 
tensive dinner.  Oh,  ye  pagan  gods  of  eating 

and  drinking,  Bacchus  and let  me  see  who 

the  presiding  deity  of  good  feeding  was  in  the 
Olympian  synod — as  I’m  an  unworthy  candidate 
I forget  that  topic  of  learning;  but  no  matter, 
non  constat.  Oh,  ye  pagan  professors  of  ating 
and  drinking,  Bacchus,  Epicurus,  and  St.  Heli- 


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ogabalus,  Anthony  of  Padua,  and  Paul  the 
Hermit,  who  poached  for  his  own  venison,  St. 
Tuck,  and  St.  Tak’em,  St.  Drinkem,  and  St. 
Eatem,  with  all  ye  other  reverend  worthies,  who 
bore  the  blushing  honours  of  the  table  thick  upon 
your  noses,  come  and  inspire  your  unworthy  can- 
didate, while  he  essays  to  chant  the  praises  of  a 
Station  dinner  I 

‘‘  Then,  then,  does  the  priest  appropriate  to 
himself  his  due  share  of  enjoyment.  Then  does 
he,  like  Elias,  throw  his  garment  of  inspiration 
upon  his  coadjutors.  Then  is  the  goose  cut  up, 
and  the  farmer’s  distilled  Latin  is  found  to  be 
purer  and  more  edifying  than  the  distillation  of 
Maynooth. 

* Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  that  Pierian  spring, 

A little  learning  here’s  a dangerous  thing.’ 

And  so  it  is,  as  far  as  this  inspiring  language  is 
concerned.  A station  dinner  is  the  very  pinnacle 
of  a priest’s  happiness.  There  is  the  fun  and 
frolic;  then  does  the  lemon- juice  of  mirth  and 
humour  come  out  of  their  reverences,  like  secret 
writing,  as  soon  as  they  get  properly  warm.  The 
song  and  the  joke,  the  laugh  and  the  leer,  the 
shaking  of  hands,  the  making  of  matches,  and 
the  projection  of  weddings, — och,  I must  con- 
clude, or  my  brisk  fancy  will  dissolve  in  the  de- 
luding vision!  Here’s  to  my  celebrity  to-mor- 
row, and  may  the  Bishop  catch  a Tarthar  in  your 
son,  my  excellent  and  logical  father! — as  I tell 
you  among  ourselves  he  will  do.  Mark  me,  I 
say  it,  but  it’s  inter  nos,  it  won’t  go  further;  but 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


379 


should  he  trouble  me  with  profundity,  may  be  I’ll 
make  a ludihrium  of  him.” 

“ But  you  forget  the  weddings  and  christen- 
ings, Denis ; you’ll  have  great  sport  at  them  too.” 
“ I can’t  remember  three  things  at  a time, 
Brian:  but  you  are  mistaken,  however,  I had 
them  snug  in  one  corner  of  my  cranium.  The 
weddings  and  the  christenings!  do  you  think  I’ll 
have  nothing  to  do  in  them,  you  stultus,  you?  ” 

“ But,  Denis,  is  there  any  harm  in  the  priests’ 
enjoying  themselves,  and  they  so  holy  as  we  know 
they  are?  ” inquired  his  mother. 

“ Not  the  least  in  life;  considering  what  severe 
fasting,  and  great  praying  they  have;  besides  it’s 
necessary  for  them  to  take  something  to  put  the 
sins  of  the  people  out  of  their  heads,  and  that’s 
one  reason  why  they  are  often  jolly  at  Stations.” 
“ My  goodness,  what  light  Denis  can  throw 
upon  anything!  ” 

“ Not  without  deep  study,  mother;  but  let  us 
have  another  portion  of  punch  each,  afther  which 
I’ll  read  a Latin  De  Profundis,  and  we’ll  go  to 
bed.  I must  be  up  early  to-morrow ; and,  Brian, 
you’ll  please  to  have  the  black  mare  saddled  and 
my  spur  brightened  as  jinteely  as  you  can,  for  I 
must  go  in  as  much  state  and  grandeur  as  possi- 
ble.” Accordingly,  in  due  time,  after  hearing 
the  De  Profundis,  which  Denis  read  in  as  sonor- 
ous a tone,  and  as  pompous  a manner,  as  he  could 
assume,  they  went  to  bed  for  the  night,  to  dream 
of  future  dignities  for  their  relative. 

When  Denis  appeared  the  next  morning,  it 
was  evident  that  the  spirit  of  prophecy  in  which 


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he  had  contemplated  the  enjoyments  annexed  to 
his  ideal  station  on  the  preceding  night,  had  de- 
parted from  him.  He  was  pale  and  anxious,  as 
in  the  early  part  of  the  previous  evening.  At 
breakfast,  his  very  appetite  treacherously  aban- 
doned him,  despite  the  buttered  toast  and  eggs 
which  his  mother  forced  upon  him  with  such  ten- 
der assiduity,  in  order,  she  said,  to  make  him 
stout  against  the  Bishop.  Her  solicitations,  how- 
ever, were  vain;  after  attempting  to  eat  to  no 
purpose,  he  arose  and  began  to  prepare  himself 
for  his  journey.  This,  indeed,  was  a work  of 
considerable  importance,  for,  as  they  had  no  look- 
ing-glass, he  was  obliged  to  dress  himself  over  a 
tub  of  water,  in  which,  since  truth  must  be  told, 
he  saw  a very  cowardly  visage.  In  due  time, 
however,  he  was  ready  to  proceed  upon  his 
journey,  apparelled  in  a new  suit  of  black 
that  sat  stiffly  and  awkwardly  upon  him, 
crumpled  in  a manner  that  enabled  any  per- 
son, at  a glance,  to  perceive  that  it  was  worn  for 
the  first  time. 

When  he  was  setting  out,  his  father  ap- 
proached him  with  a small  jug  of  holy  water  in 
his  hand,  “ Denis,’’  said  he,  “ I think  you  won’t 
be  the  worse  of  a sprinkle  of  this ; ” and  he  ac- 
cordingly was  about  to  shake  it  with  a little 
brush  over  his  person,  when  Denis  arrested  his 
hand. 

“ Easy,  father,”  he  replied,  “ you  don’t  remem- 
ber that  my  new  clothes  are  on.  I’ll  just  take  a 
little  with  my  fingers,  for  you  know  one  drop  is 
as  good  as  a thousand.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


381 


“ I know  that,”  said  the  father,  “ but  on  the 
other  hand  you  know  it’s  not  lucky  to  refuse  it.” 

“ I didn’t  refuse  it,”  rejoined  Denis,  “ I surely 
took  a quantum  suff.  of  it  with  my  own  hand.” 

“ It  was  very  near  a refusal,”  said  the  father,  < 
in  a disappointed  and  somewhat  sorrowful  tone; 

‘‘  but  it  can’t  be  helped  now.  I’m  only  sorry  you 
put  it  and  quantum  suff,  in  connexion  at  all. 
Quantum  suff,  is  what  Father  Finnerty  says, 
when  he  will  take  no  more  punch;  and  it  doesn’t 
argue  respect  in  you  to  make  as  little  of  a jug 
of  holy  wather  as  he  does  of  a jug  of  punch.” 

“ I’m  sorry  for  it  too,”  replied  Denis,  who  was 
every  whit  as  superstitious  as  his  father;  “and 
to  atone  for  my  error,  I desire  you  will  sprinkle 
me  all  over  with  it — clothes  and  all.” 

The  father  complied  with  this,  and  Denis  was 
setting  out,  when  his  mother  exclaimed,  “ Blessed 
be  them  above  us,  Denis  More!  Look  at  the 
boy’s  legs!  There’s  luck!  Why  one  of  his 
stockins  has  the  wrong  side  out,  and  it’s  upon  the 
right  leg  too!  Well,  this  will  be  a fortunate  day 
for  you,  Denis,  any  way;  the  same  thing  never 
happened  myself,  but  something  good  followed 
it.” 

This  produced  a slight  conflict  between  Denis’s 
personal  vanity  and  superstition;  but  on  this  oc- 
casion superstition  prevailed:  he  even  felt  his 
spirits  considerably  elevated  by  the  incident, 
mounted  the  mare,  and  after  jerking  himself 
once  or  twice  in  the  saddle,  to  be  certain  that  all 
was  right,  he  touched  her  with  the  spur,  and  set 
out  to  be  examined  by  the  Bishop,  exclaiming  as 


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he  went,  “ Let  his  lordship  take  care  that  I don’t 
make  a ludibrium  of  him.” 

The  family  at  that  moment  all  came  to  the 
door,  where  they  stood  looking  after,  and  admir- 
ing him,  until  he  turned  a corner  of  the  road,  and 
left  their  sight. 

Many  were  the  speculations  entered  into  dur- 
ing his  absence,  as  to  the  fact,  whether  or  not  he 
would  put  down  the  bishop  in  the  course  of  the 
examination ; some  of  them  holding  that  he  could 
do  so  if  he  wished;  but  others  of  them  denying 
that  it  was  possible  for  him,  inasmuch  as  he  had 
never  received  holy  orders. 

The  day  passed,  but  not  in  the  usual  way,  in 
Denis  More  O’Shaughnessy’s.  The  females  of 
the  family  were  busily  engaged  in  preparing  for 
the  dinner,  to  which  Father  Finnerty,  his  curate, 
and  several  of  their  nearest  and  wealthiest  friends 
had  been  invited ; and  the  men  in  clearing  out  the 
stables  and  other  offices  for  the  horses  of  the 
guests.  Pride  and  satisfaction  were  visible  on 
every  face,  and  that  disposition  to  cordiality  and 
to  the  oblivion  of  everything  unpleasant  to  the 
mind,  marked,  in  a prominent  manner,  their  con- 
duct and  conversation.  Old  Denis  went,  and 
voluntarily  spoke  to  a neighbour,  with  whom  he 
had  not  exchanged  a word,  except  in  anger,  for 
some  time.  He  found  him  at  work  in  the  field, 
and  advancing  with  open  hand  and  heart,  he 
begged  his  pardon  for  any  offence  he  might  have 
given  him. 

‘‘  My  son,”  said  he,  “ is  goin’  to  Maynooth;  and 
as  he  is  a boy  that  we  have  a good  right  to  be 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


383 


proud  of,  and  as  our  friends  are  coinin’  to  ate 
their  dinner  wid  us  to-day,  and  as — as  my  heart 
is  too  full  to  bear  ill  will  against  any  livin’  sowl, 
let  alone  a man  that  I know  to  be  sound  at  the 
heart,  in  spite  of  all  that  has  come  between  us — I 
say.  Darby,  I forgive  you,  and  I expect  pardon 
for  my  share  of  the  offence.  There’s  the  hand 
of  an  honest  man — let  us  be  as  neighbours  ought 
to  be,  and  not  divided  into  parties  and  factions 
against  one  another,  as  we  have  been  too  long. 
Take  your  dinner  wid  us  to-day,  and  let  us  hear 
no  more  about  ill-will  and  unkindness.” 

“ Denis,”  said  his  friend,  “ it  ill  becomes  you  to 
spake  first.  ’Tis  I that  ought  to  do  that,  and  to 
do  it  long  ago  too;  but  you  see,  somehow,  so  long 
as  it  was  to  be  decided  by  blows  between  the  fam- 
ilies, I’d  never  give  in.  Not  but  that  I might  do 
so,  but  my  sons,  Denis,  wouldn’t  hear  of  it. 
Throth  I’m  glad  of  this,  and  so  will  they  too;  for 
only  for  the  honour  and  glory  of  houldin’  out,  we 
might  be  all  friends  through  other  long  ago. 
And  I’ll  tell  you  what,  we  couldn’t  do  better,  the 
two  factions  of  us,  nor  join  and  thrash  them 
Haigneys  that  alwa^^s  put  between  us.” 

“ No,  Darby,  I tell  you,  I bear  no  ill-will,  no 
bad  thoughts  agin  any  born  Christian  this  day, 
and  I won’t  hear  of  that.  Come  to  us  about  five 
o’clock:  we’re  to  have  Father  Finnerty,  and 
Father  Molony,  his  curate:  all  friends,  man,  all 
friends;  and  Denny,  God  guard  him  this  day, 
will  be  home,  afther  passin’  the  Bishop,  about 
four  o’clock.” 

‘‘  I always  thought  that  gorsoon  would  come  to 


384 


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somethin’.  Why  it  was  wondlierful  how  he  used 
to  discoorse  upon  the  chapel-green,  yourself  and 
himself : but  he  soon  left  you  behind.  And  how 
he  sealed  up  poor  ould  Dixon,  the  parish  dark’s 
mouth,  at  Barny  Boccagh’s  wake.  God  rest  his 
soul ! It  was  talkin’  about  the  Protestant  church 
they  wor.  ‘ Why,’  said  Misther  Denis,  ‘ you  ould 
termagant,  can  you  tell  me  who  first  discovered 
your  church  ? ’ The  dotin’  ould  crathur  began  of 
hummin’  and  hawin’,  and  advisin’  the  boy  to  have 
more  sense.  ‘ Come,’  said  he,  ‘ you  ould  canticle, 
can  you  answer?  But  for  fear  you  can’t.  I’ll 
answer  for  you.  It  was  the  divil  discovered  it, 
one  fine  mornin’  that  he  went  out  to  get  an  ap- 
petite, bein’  in  delicate  health.’  Why,  Denis, 
you’d  tie  all  that  wor  present  wid  a rotten 
sthraw.” 

“ Darby,  I ax  your  pardon  over  agin  for  what 
came  between  us;  and  I see  now  betther  than  I 
did,  that  the  fault  of  it  was  more  mine  nor  yours. 
You’ll  be  down  surely  about  five  o’clock?  ” 

“ I must  go  and  take  this  beard  off  o’  me,  and 
clane  myself;  and  I may  as  well  do  that  now: 
but  I’ll  be  down,  never  fear.” 

“In  throth  the  hoy  was  always  bright! — ha, 
ha,  ha! — and  he  sobered  Dixon?  ” 

“ Had  him  like  a judge  in  no  time.” 

“ Oh,  he  could  do  it — he  could  do  that,  at  all 
times.  God  be  wid  you,  Darby,  till  I see  you  in 
the  evenin’.” 

“ Bannaglit  lhath,  Denis,  an’  I’m  proud  we’re 
as  we  ought  to  be.” 

About  four  o’clock,  the  expected  guests  began 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


385 


to  assemble  at  Denis’s;  and  about  the  same  hour 
one  might  perceive  Susan  O’Shaughnessy  run- 
ning out  to  a stile  a little  above  the  house,  where 
she  stood  for  a few  minutes,  with  her  hand  shad- 
ing her  eyes,  looking  long  and  intensely  tow^ards 
the  direction  from  which  she  expected  her  brother 
to  return.  Hitherto,  however,  he  could  not  he 
discovered  in  the  distance,  although  scarcely  five 
minutes  elapsed  during  the  intervals  of  her  ap- 
pearance at  the  stile  to  watch  him.  Some  horse- 
men she  did  notice;  but  after  straining  her  eyes 
eagerly  and  anxiously,  she  was  enabled  only  to 
report,  with  a dejected  air,  that  they  were  their 
own  friends  coming  from  a distant  part  of  the 
parish,  to  be  present  at  the  dinner.  At  length, 
after  a long  and  eager  look,  she  ran  in  with  an 
exclamation  of  delight,  saying — 

“Thank  goodness,  he’s  cornin’  at  last;  I see 
somebody  dressed  in  black  ridin’  down  the  upper 
end  of  Tim  Marly’s  horeen,  an’  I’m  sure  an’ 
certain  it  must  be  Denis,  from  his  dress!  ” 

“ I’ll  warrant  it  is,  my  colleen,”  replied  her 
father;  “he  said  he’d  be  here  before  the  dinner 
would  he  ready,  an’  it’s  widin  a good  hour  of 
that.  I’ll  thry  myself.” 

He  and  his  daughter  once  more  went  out ; but, 
alas!  only  to  experience  a fresh  disappointment. 
Instead  of  Denis,  it  was  Father  Finnerty  who,  it 
appeared,  felt  as  anxious  to  be  in  time  for  din- 
ner, as  the  young  candidate  himself  could  have 
done.  He  was  advancing  at  a brisk  trot,  not 
upon  the  colt  which  had  been  presented  to  him, 

hut  upon  his  old  nag,  which  seemed  to  feel  as 
III— 25 


386 


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eager  to  get  at  Denis’s  oats,  as  its  owner  did  to 
taste  his  mutton. 

“ I see,  Susy,  we’ll  have  a day  of  it,  plase 
goodness,”  observed  Denis  to  the  girl:  “here’s 
Father  Finnerty,  and  I wouldn’t  for  more  nor 
I’ll  mention  that  he  had  staid  away;  and  I hope 
the  cowjuther  will  come  as  well  as  himself.  Do 
you  go  in,  aroon,  and  tell  them  he’s  cornin’,  and 
I’ll  go  and  meet  him.” 

Most  of  Denis’s  friends  were  now  assembled, 
dressed  in  their  best  apparel,  and  raised  to  the 
highest  pitch  of  good  humour;  for  no  man  who 
knows  the  relish  with  which  Irishmen  enter  into 
convivial  enjoyments,  can  be  ignorant  of  the  re- 
markable flow  of  spirits  which  the  prospect  of  an 
abundant  and  hospitable  dinner  produces  among 
them. 

Father  Finnerty  was  one  of  those  priests  who 
constitute  a numerous  species  in  Ireland;  reg- 
ular, but  loose  and  careless  in  the  observances  of 
his  church,  he  could  not  he  taxed  with  any  posi- 
tive neglect  of  pastoral  duty.  He  held  his  sta- 
tions at  stated  times  and  places,  with  great  ex- 
actness, but  when  the  severer  duties  annexed  to 
them  were  performed,  he  relaxed  into  the  boon 
companion,  sang  his  song,  told  his  story, 
laughed  his  laugh,  and  occasionally  danced  his 
dance,  the  very  beau  ideal  of  a rough,  shrewd, 
humorous  divine,  who,  amidst  the  hilarity  of  con- 
vivial mirth,  kept  an  eye  to  his  own  interest,  and 
sweetened  the  severity  with  which  he  exacted  his 
“ dues  ” by  a manner  at  once  jocose  and  familiar. 
If  a wealthy  farmer  had  a child  to  christen,  his 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


387 


reverence  declined  baptizing  it  in  the  chapel,  hut 
as  a proof  of  his  marked  respect  for  its  parents, 
he  and  his  curate  did  them  the  honour  of  perform- 
ing the  ceremony  at  their  own  house.  If  a mar- 
riage was  to  be  solemnized,  provided  the  parties 
were  wealthy,  he  adopted  the  same  course,  and 
manifested  the  same  flattering  marks  of  his  par- 
ticular esteem  for  the  parties,  by  attending  at 
their  residence;  or  if  they  preferred  the  pleasure 
of  a journey  to  his  own  house,  he  and  his  curate 
accompanied  them  home  from  the  same  motives. 
This  condescension,  whilst  it  raised  the  pride  of 
the  parties,  secured  a good  dinner  and  a pleasant 
evening’s  entertainment  for  the  priests,  enhanced 
their  humility  exceedingly,  for  the  more  they  en- 
joyed themselves,  the  more  highly  did  their 
friends  consider  themselves  honoured.  This 
mode  of  life  might,  one  would  suppose,  lessen 
their  importance  and  that  personal  respect  which 
is  entertained  for  the  priests  by  the  people;  but 
it  is  not  so — the  priests  can,  the  moment  such 
scenes  are  ended,  pass,  with  the  greatest  apti- 
tude of  habit,  into  the  hard  gloomy  character  of 
men  who  are  replete  with  profound  knowledge, 
exalted  piety,  and  extraordinary  power.  The 
sullen  frown,  the  angry  glance,  or  the  mysterious 
allusion  to  the  omnipotent  authority  of  the  church, 
as  vested  in  their  persons,  joined  to  some  unin- 
telligible dogma,  laid  down  as  their  authority,  are 
always  sufficient  to  check  an^dhing  derogatory 
towards  them,  which  is  apt  to  originate  in  the 
unguarded  moments  of  conviviality. 

“ Plase  your  Reverence,  I’ll  put  him  up  my- 


388 


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self,”  said  Denis  to  Father  Finnerty,  as  he  took 
his  horse  by  the  bridle,  and  led  him  towards  the 
stable,  “ and  how  is  my  cowlt  doin’  wid  you. 
Sir?” 

“ Troublesome,  Denis ; he  was  in  a bad  state 
when  I got  him,  and  he’ll  cost  me  nearly  his  price 
before  I have  him  thoroughly  broke.” 

“ He  was  pretty  well  broke  wid  me,  I know,” 
replied  Denis,  “ and  I’m  af ear’d  you’ve  given 
jhim  into  the  hands  of  some  one  that  knows  little 
about  horses.  Mave,”  he  shouted,  passing  the 
kitchen  door,  “ here’s  Father  Finnerty — go  in 
Docthor,  and  put  big  Brian  Buie  out  o’  the  cor- 
ner; for  goodness’  sake  Eockimnicate  him  from 
the  hob — an’  sure  you  have  power  to  do  that  any 
way.” 

The  priest  laughed,  but  immediately  assuming 
a grave  face,  as  he  entered,  exclaimed — 

“ Brian  Buie,  in  the  name  of  the  forty-seventh 
proposition  of  Euclid’s  Elements — in  the  name 
of  the  cube  and  square  roots — of  Algebra,  Math- 
ematics, Fluxions,  and  the  doctrine  of  all  essen- 
tial spirits  that  admit  of  proof — in  the  name  of 
Nebuchadanezar  the  divine,  who  invented  the  con- 
venient scheme  of  taking  a cold  collation  under 
a hedge — by  the  power  of  that  profound  branch 
of  learning,  the  Greek  Digamma — by  the  author- 
ity of  true  Latin,  primo,  of  Beotian  Greek, 
secundo,  and  of  Arabian  Hebrew,  tertio;  which 
is,  when  united  by  the  skill  of  profound  erudi- 
tion, primo,  secundo,  tertio;  or,  being  reversed  by 
the  logic  of  illustration,  tertio,  secundo,  primo. 
Commando  te  in  nomine  hotteli  potheeni  honi 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


389 


drinkandi  his  cedihus,  Jiac  node,  inter  amicos  ex- 
cellentissimi  amici  mei,  Dio7iisii  CT Shaughnessy , 
quern  hehnavavi  ex  excellentissimo  colto  ejus, 
causa  pcdantissimi  filii  ejus,  designati  cede  sice, 
patri,  sed  nequaquam  deo,  nec  naturce,  nec  ingenio; 
— commando  te  inquam,  Bernarde  Buie,  surgere, 
stare,  ambulare,  et  decedere  e cornei'o  isto  vet 
hohho,  quo  nunc  sedes!  Yes,  I command  thee, 
Brian  Buie,  who  sit  upon  the  hob  of  my  worthy 
and  most  excellent  friend  and  parishioner,  Denis 
O’Shaughnessy,  to  rise,  to  stand  up  before  your 
spiritual  superior,  to  walk  down  from  it,  and  to 
tremble  as  if  you  were  about  to ’sink  into  the  earth 
to  the  neck,  but  no  further; — before  the  fulmina- 
tions  of  him  who  can  wield  the  thunder  of  that 
mighty  Salmoneus,  his  holiness  the  Pope,  succes- 
sor to  St.  Peter,  who  left  the  servant  of  the  Cen- 
turion earless, — I command  and  objurgate  thee, 
sinner  as  thou  art,  to  vacate  your  seat  on  the  hob 
for  the  man  of  sanctity,  whose  legitimate  pos- 
session it  is,  otherwise  I shall  send  you  like  that 
worthy  archbishop,  the  aforesaid  Nebuchadane- 
zar,  to  live  upon  leeks  for  seven  years  in  the 
renowned  kingdom  of  Wales,  where  the  leeks 
may  be  seen  to  this  day!  Presto!  ” 

These  words,  pronomiced  with  a grave  face,  in 
a loud,  rapid,  and  sonorous  tone  of  voice,  startled 
the  good  people  of  the  house,  who  sat  mute  and 
astonished  at  such  an  exordium  from  the  worthy 
pastor ; but  no  sooner  had  he  uttered  Brian  Buie’s 
name,  giving  him,  at  the  same  time,  a fierce  and 
authoritative  look,  than  the  latter  started  to  his 
feet,  and  stepped  down  in  a kind  of  alarm  to- 


390 


IRELAND 


wards  the  door.  The  priest  immediately  placed 
his  hand  upon  his  shoulder  in  a mysterious  man- 
ner, exclaiming — 

“ Don’t  be  alarmed,  Brian,  I have  taken  the 
force  of  the  anathema  otf  you;  your  power  to  sit, 
or  stand,  or  go  where  you  please,  is  returned 
again.  I wanted  your  seat,  and  Denis  desired 
me  to  excommunicate  you  out  of  it,  which  I did, 
and  you  accordingly  left  it  without  your  own 
knowledge,  consent,  or  power;  I transferred  you 
to  where  you  stand,  and  you  had  no  more 
strength  to  resist  me,  than  if  you  were  an  infant 
not  three  hours  in  the  world!” 

‘‘  I ax  God’s  pardon,  an’  your  Reverence’s,” 
said  Brian,  in  a tremour,  “ if  I have  given  offince. 
Now,  bless  my  soul!  what’s  this?  As  sure  as  I 
stand  before  you,  neighbours,  I know  neither 
act  nor  part  of  how  I wafe  brought  from  the  hob 
at  all — neither  act  nor  part ! Did  any  of  yez  see 
me  lavin’  it ; or  how  did  I come  here — can  ye  tell 
me?” 

“ Paddy,”  said  one  of  his  friends,  ‘‘  did  you 
see  him?  ” 

“ The  sorra  one  o’  me  seen  him,”  replied 
Paddy : “ I was  looldn’  at  his  Reverence,  sthrivin’ 
to  know  what  he  was  sayin’.” 

“ Pether,  did  you?”  another  inquired. 

“ Me!  I never  seen  a stim  of  him  till  he  was 
standin’  alone  on  the  flure ! Sure,  when  he  didn’t 
see  or  find  himself  goin’,  how  could  another  see 
him?  ” 

“Glory  be  to  God!”  exclaimed  Mave;  “one 
ought  to  think  well  what  they  say,  when  they 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


391 


spake  of  the  clargy,  for  they  don’t  know  what 
it  may  bring  down  upon  them,  sooner  or  later!  ” 

“ Our  Denis  will  be  able  to  do  that  yet,”  said 
Susan  to  her  elder  sister. 

‘‘  To  be  sure  he  will,  girsha,  as  soon  as  he’s 
ordained — every  bit  as  well  as  Father  Finnerty,” 
replied  Mary. 

The  young  enthusiast’s  countenance  bright- 
ened as  her  sister  spoke:  her  dark  ej^e  became 
for  a minute  or  two  fixed  upon  vacancy,  during 
which  it  flashed  several  times ; until,  as  the  images 
of  her  brother’s  future  glory  passed  before  her 
imagination,  she  became  wrapt — ^Iier  lip  quiv- 
ered— her  cheek  flushed  into  a deeper  colour,  and 
the  tears  burst  in  gushes  from  her  eyes. 

The  mother,  who  was  now  engaged  in  welcom- 
ing Father  Finnerty — a duty  which  the  priest’s 
comic  miracle  prevented  her  from  performing 
sooner — did  not  perceive  her  daughter’s  agitation, 
nor,  in  fact,  did  any  one  present  understand  its 
cause.  Whilst  the  priest  was  taking  Brian 
Buie’s  seat,  she  went  once  more  to  watch  the 
return  of  Denis;  and  while  she  stood  upon  the 
stile,  her  father,  after  having  put  up  the  horse, 
entered  the  house,  “ to  keep  his  Reverence  com- 
pany.” 

“ An’  pray,  Docthor,”  he  inquired,  “ where  is 
Father  Molony,  that  he’s  not  wid  you?  I hope 
he  won’t  disappoint  us;  he’s  a mighty  pleasant 
gintleman  of  an  evenin’,  an’,  barrin’  your  Rev- 
erence, I don’t  know  a man  tells  a better  story.” 

“ He  entreated  permission  from  me  this 
morning,”  replied  Father  Finnerty,  “ and  that 


392 


IRELAND 


was  leave  to  pay  a visit  to  the  Bishop;  for  what 
purpose  I know  not,  unless  to  put  in  a word  in 
season  for  the  first  parish  that  becomes  vacant.” 

“ Tbroth,  an’  he  well  desarves  a parish,”  re- 
plied Denis ; “ an’  although  we’d  be  loath  to  part 
wid  him,  still  we’d  be  proud  to  hear  of  his  pro- 
motion.” 

“ He’ll  meet  Denis  there,”  observed  Susan, 
who  had  returned  from  the  stile:  “he’ll  be  apt 
to  be  present  at  his  trial  wid  the  Bishop;  an’ 
maybe  he’ll  be  home  along  wid  him.  I’ll  go  an’ 
thry  if  I can  see  them  agin;  ” and  she  flew  out 
once  more  to  watch  their  return. 

“Now,  Father  Finnerty,”  said  an  uncle  of 
Denis’s,  “ you  can  give  a good  guess  at  what  a 
dacent  parish  ought  to  be  worth  to  a parish 
priest?  ” 

“ Mrs.  O’Shaughnessy,”  said  the  priest,  “ is 
that  fat  brown  goose  suspended  before  the  fire, 
of  your  own  rearing?  ” 

“ Indeed  it  is,  plase  your  Reverence ; but  as 
far  as  good  male  an’  phaties  could  go  for  the 
last  month,  it  got  the  benefit  of  them.” 

“ And  pray,  Mrs.  O’Shaughnessy,  have  you 
many  of  the  same  kidney?  I only  ask  for  infor- 
mation, as  I said  to  Peery  Hacket’s  wife,  the  last 
day  I held  the  Station  in  Peery’s.  There  was 
just  such  another  goose  hanging  before  the  fire; 
but,  you  must  know,  the  cream  of  the  joke  was, 
that  I had  been  after  coming  from  the  confes- 
sional, as  hungry  as  a man  could  conveniently 
wish  himself ; and  seeing  the  brown  fat  goose 
before  the  fire,  just  as  that  is,  why  my  teeth. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


393 


Mave,  began  to  get  lachrymose.  Upon  my 
Priesthood,  it  was  such  a goose  as  a priest’s  corpse 
might  get  up  on  its  elbow  to  look  at,  and  exclaim, 
avourneen  7nacliree,  it’s  a thousand  pities  that 
I’m  not  living,  to  have  a cut  at  you!  ’ — ha,  ha,  ha! 
God  be  good  to  old  Friar  Hennessy,  I have  that 
joke  from  him. 

‘‘  ‘ Well,  Mrs.  Hacket,’  says  I,  as  I was  airing 
my  fingers  at  the  fire,  ‘ I dare  say  you  haven’t 
another  goose  like  this  about  the  house?  Now 
tell  me,  like  an  honest  woman,  have  you  any  of 
the  same  kidney? — I only  ask  for  information.’ 
Mrs.  Hacket,  however,  told  me  she  believed 
there  might  be  a few  of  the  same  kind  straggling 
about  the  place,  but  said  nothing  further  upon 
it,  until  the  Saturday  following,  when  her  son 
brings  me  down  a pair  of  the  fattest  geese  I 
ever  cut  up  for  my  Sunday’s  dinner.  Now,  Mrs. 
O’Shaughnessy,  wasn’t  that  doing  the  thing 
dacent? 

“ Well,  well,  Docthor,”  said  Denis,  “ that  was 
all  right ; let  Mave  alone,  an’  maybe  she’ll  be  apt 
to  find  out  a pair  that  will  match  Mrs.  Hacket’s. 
Not  that  I say  it,  but  she  doesn’t  like  to  be  out- 
done in  anything.” 

“ Docthor,  I was  wishin’  to  know.  Sir,”  contin- 
ued the  uncle  of  the  absent  candidate,  “ what  the 
value  of  a good  parish  might  be.” 

“ I think,  Mave,  there’s  a discrepancy  between 
the  goose  and  tne  shoulder  of  mutton.  The  fact 
is,  that  if  it  be  a disputation  between  them,  as  to 
which  will  be  roasted  first,  I pronounce  that  the 
goose  will  have  it.  It’s  now,  let  me  see,  half  past 


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four  o’clock,  and,  in  my  opinion,  it  will  take  a 
full  half  hour  to  bring  up  the  mutton.  So  Mave, 
if  you’ll  be  guided  by  your  priest,  advance  the 
mutton  towards  the  fire  about  two  inches,  and 
keep  the  little  girsJia  basting  steadily,  and  then 
you’ll  be  sure  to  have  it  rich  and  juicy.” 

“ Docthor,  wid  submission,  I was  wantin’  to 
know  what  a good  parish  might  be ” 

“ Mike  Lawdher,  if  I don’t  mistake,  you  ought 
to  have  good  grazing  down  in  your  meadows  at 
Ballinard.  What  will  you  be  charging  for  a 
month  or  two’s  grass  for  this  colt  I’ve  bought 
from  my  dacent  friend,  Denis  O’Shaughnessy, 
here?  And,  Mike,  be  rasonable  upon  a poor 
man,  for  we’re  all  poor,  being  only  tolerated  by 
the  state  we  live  under,  and  ought  not,  of  coorse, 
to  be  hard  upon  one  another.” 

“ An’  what  did  he  cost  you,  Docthor?  ” replied 
Mike,  answering  one  question  by  another ; “ what 
did  you  get  for  him,  Denis?  ” he  continued,  re- 
ferring for  information  to  Denis,  to  whom,  on 
reflection,  he  thought  it  more  decorous  to  put 
the  question. 

Denis,  however,  felt  the  peculiar  delicacy  of 
his  situation,  and  looked  at  the  priest,  whilst  the 
latter,  under  a momentary  embarrassment,  looked 
significantly  at  Denis.  His  Reverence,  however, 
was  seldom  at  a loss. 

‘‘  What  would  you  take  him  to  be  worth, 
Mike?”  he  asked;  “remember  he’s  but  badly 
trained,  and  I’m  sure  it  will  cost  me  both  money 
and  trouble  to  make  anything  dacent  out  of 
him.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


395 


“If  you  got  liim  somewhere  between  five  and 
twenty  and  thirty  guineas,  I would  say  you  have 
good  value  for  your  money,  plase  your  Rever- 
ence. What  do  you  say,  Denis — am  I near  it?  ” 
“ Why,  Mike,  you  know  as  much  about  a horse 
as  you  do  about  the  Pentateuch  or  Paralipome- 
non.  Five  and  twenty  guineas,  indeed!  I hope 
you  won’t  set  your  grass  as  you  would  sell  your 
horses.” 

“ Why,  thin,  if  your  Reverence  ped  ready 
money  for  him,  I maintain  he  was  as  well  worth 
twenty  guineas  as  a thief’s  worth  the  gallows ; an’ 
you  know.  Sir,  I’d  be  long  sorry  to  differ  wid 
you.  Am  I near  it  now,  Docthor?  ” 

“ Denis  got  for  the  horse  more  than  that,” 
said  his  Reverence,  “ and  he  may  speak  for  him- 
self.” 

“ Thrue  for  you.  Sir,”  replied  Denis;  “ I surely 
got  above  twenty  guineas  for  him,  an’  I’m  well 
satisfied  wid  the  bargain.” 

“ You  hear  that  now,  Mike — you  hear  what  he 
says.” 

“ There’s  no  goin’  beyant  it,”  returned  Mike; 
“ the  proof  o’  the  puddin’  is  in  the  atin’,  as  we’ll 
soon  know,  Mave — eh,  Docthor?  ” 

“ I never  knew  Mave  to  make  a bad  one,”  said 
the  priest,  “ except  upon  the  day  Friar  Hennessy 
dined  with  me  here — my  curate  was  sick,  and  I 
had  to  call  in  the  Friar  to  assist  me  at  confes- 
sion; however,  to  do  Mave  justice,  it  was  not  her 
fault,  for  the  Friar  drowned  the  pudding,  which 
was  originally  a good  one,  with  a deluge  of 
strong  whisky. 


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“ ‘ It’s  too  gross,’  said  the  facetious  Friar,  in 
his  loud  strong  voice — ‘ it’s  too  gross,  Docthor 
Finnerty,  so  let  us  spiritualise  it,  that  it  may  be 
Christian  atin’,  fit  for  pious  men  to  digest,’  and 
then  he  came  out  with  his  thundering  laugh — 
oigh,  oigh,  oigh,  oigh!  but  he  had  consequently 
the  most  of  the  pudding  to  himself,  an’  indeed 
brought  the  better  half  of  it  home  in  his  saddle- 
bags.” 

“ Faix,  an’  he  did,”  said  Mave,  “ an’  a fat 
goose  that  he  coaxed  Mary  to  kill  for  him  un- 
knownst  to  us  all,  in  the  course  o’  the  day.” 

“ How  long  is  he  dead,  Docthor?  ” said  Denis; 
“ God  rest  him  any  way,  he’s  happy!  ” 

“ He  died  in  the  hot  summer,  now  nine  years 
about  June  last;  and  talking  about  him,  reminds 
me  of  a trick  he  put  on  me  about  two  years  before 
his  death.  He  and  I had  not  been  on  good  terms 
for  long  enough  before  that  time;  but  as  the 
curate  I had  was  then  sickly,  and  as  I wouldn’t 
be  allowed  two,  I found  that  it  might  be  con- 
venient to  call  in  the  Friar  occasionally,  a regu- 
lation he  did  not  at  all  relish,  for  he  said  he  could 
make  far  more  by  questing  and  poaching  about 
among  the  old  women  of  the  parish,  with  whom 
he  was  a great  favourite,  in  consequence  of  the 
Latin  hymns  he  used  to  sing  for  them,  and  the 
great  cures  he  used  to  perform — a species  of  de- 
votion which  neither  I nor  my  curate  had  time 
to  practise.  So,  in  order  to  renew  my  intimacy, 
I sent  him  a bag  of  oatmeal  and  a couple  of 
flitches  of  bacon,  both  of  which  he  readily  ac- 
cepted, and  came  down  to  me  on  the  following 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


397 


day  to  borrow  three  guineas.  After  attempting 
to  evade  him — for,  in  fact,  I had  not  the  money 
to  spare — he  at  length  succeeded  in  getting  them 
from  me,  on  the  condition  that  he  was  to  give 
my  curate’s  horse  and  mine  a month’s  grass,  by 
way  of  compensation,  for  I knew  that  to  expect 
payment  from  him  was  next  to  going  for  piety 
to  a parson. 

“ ‘ I will,’  said  he,  ‘ give  your  horses  the  run 
of  my  best  field  ’ — for  he  held  a comfortable  bit 
of  ground ; ‘ but,’  he  added,  ‘ as  you  have  been 
always  cutting  at  me  about  my  principle,  I must 
insist,  if  it  was  only  to  convince  you  of  my  giner- 
osity,  that  you’ll  lave  the  choosing  of  the  month 
to  myself.’ 

“ As  I really  wanted  an  assistant  at  the  time, 
in  consequence  of  my  curate’s  illness,  he  had  me 
bound,  in  some  degree,  to  his  own  will.  I ac- 
cordingly gave  him  the  money;  but  from  that 
till  the  day  of  his  death,  he  never  sent  for  our 
horses,  except  when  there  was  a foot  and  a half 
of  snow  on  the  ground,  at  which  time  he  was 
certain  to  despatch  a messenger  for  him,  ‘ with 
Father  Hennessy’s  compliments,  and  he  re- 
quested Doctor  Finnerty  to  send  the  horses  to 
Father  Hennessy’s  field,  to  ate  their  month’s 
grass.’  ” 

“ But  is  it  true,  Docthor,  that  his  face  was 
shinin’  after  his  death?  ” 

“ True  enough,  and  to  my  own  knowledge, 
long  before  that  event.” 

“ Dear  me,”  exclaimed  Mave,  ‘‘  he  was  a holy 
man  afther  all!  ” 


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“ Undoubtedly  he  was,”  said  the  priest;  “ there 
are  spots  in  the  sun,  Mrs.  O’Shaughnessy — we 
are  not  all  immaculate.  There  never  was  one 
sent  into  this  world  without  less  or  more  sin  upon 
them.  Even  the  saints  themselves  had  venial 
touches  about  them,  but  nothing  to  signify.” 

“ Docthor,”  said  the  uncle,  pertinaciously  ad- 
hering to  the  original  question,  “ you  have  an 
opportunity  of  knowin’  what  a good  parish  might 
be  worth  to  a smart,  active  priest?  For  the  sake 

of  a son  of  mine  that  I’ve  some  notion  of ” 

“ By  the  by,  I wonder  Denis  is  not  here  before 
now,”  exclaimed  his  Reverence,  lending  a deaf 
ear  to  Mike  O’Shaughnessy’s  interrogatory. 

Old  Denis’s  favourite  topic  had  been  started, 
and  he  accordingly  launched  out  upon  it  with  all 
the  delight  and  ardour  of  a fond  father. 

“ Now,  Docthor  dear,  before  us  all — an’  sure 
you  know  as  well  as  I do,  that  we’re  all  friends 
together — ^what’s  your  downright  opinion  of 
Denis  ? Is  he  as  bright  as  you  tould  me  the  other 
mornin’  he  was?  ” 

“ Really,  Denis  O’Shaughnessy,”  replied  his 
Reverence,  “ it’s  not  pleasant  to  me  to  be  pressed 
so  often  to  eulogise  a young  gintleman  of  whose 
talents  I have  so  frequently  expressed  my  opin- 
ion. Is  not  once  sufficient  for  me  to  say  what 
I’ve  said  concerning  him?  But,  as  we  are  all 
present,  I now  say  and  declare,  that  my  opinion 
of  Denis  O’Shaughnessy,  jun.,  is  decidedly 
peculiar — decidedly. — Come,  girshah,  keep  bast- 
ing the  mutton,  and  never  heed  my  boots — ^turn 
it  about  and  baste  the  back  of  it  better.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


399 


“ God  be  thanked,”  exclaimed  the  delighted 
father,  “ sure  it’s  a comfort  to  hear  that,  any  how 
— afther  all  the  pains  and  throuhle  we’ve  taken 
wid  him,  to  know  it’s  not  lost.  Why,  that  bo}" 
was  so  smart,  Docthor,  that,  may  I never  sin, 
wiien  he  went  first  to  the  Latin,  but — an’  this  is 
no  he,  for  I have  it  from  his  own  lips — when  he’d 
look  upon  liis  task  two  or  three  times  over  night, 
he’d  weaken  wid  every  word  of  it,  pat  off  the 
book,  the  next  mornin’.  And  how  do  you  think 
he  got  it?  Why,  the  crathur,  you  see,  used  to 
dhrame  that  he  was  readin’  it  off,  and  so  he  used 
to  get  it  that  way  in  his  sleep!  ” 

At  this  moment  Darby  Moran,  Denis’s  old  foe, 
entered,  and  his  reception  was  cordial,  and,  if  the 
truth  were  known,  almost  magnanimous  on  the 
part  of  Denis. 

“ Darby  Moran,”  said  he,  “ not  a man,  barrin’ 
his  Reverence  here,  in  the  parish  we  sit  in,  that 
I’m  prouder  to  see  on  my  flure — give  me 
your  hand,  man  alive,  and  JNIave  and  all  of  ye 
welcome  him.  Everything  of  what  you  know  is 
buried  between  us,  and  you’re  bound  to  welcome 
him,  if  it  was  only  in  regard  of  the  handsome 
way  he  spoke  of  our  son  this  day — here’s  my  own 
chair.  Darby,  and  sit  down.” 

“ Throth,”  said  Darby,  after  shaking  hands 
with  the  priest  and  greeting  the  rest  of  the  com- 
pany, “ the  same  boy  no  one  could  spake  ill  of ; 
and,  although  we  and  his  people  were  not  upon 
the  best  footin’,  still  the  sarra  one  o’  me  but 
alw^ays  gave  him  his  due.” 

“ Indeed,  I believe  you.  Darby,”  said  his 


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father;  “but  are  you  comfortable?  draw  your 
chair  nearer  the  fire — the  evenin’s  gettin’  cowld.” 

“ I’m  very  well,  Denis,  I thank  you; — nearer 
the  firel  Faix,  except  you  want  to  have  me 
roasted  along  wid  that  shoulder  of  mutton  and 
goose,  I think  I can’t  go  much  nearer  it.” 

“ I’m  sorry,  you  warn’t  in  sooner.  Darby,  till 
you’d  hear  what  Docthor  Finnerty  here — God 
spare  him  long  among  us — said  of  Denis  a while 
ago.  Docthor,  if  it  wouldn’t  be  makin’  too  free, 
maybe  you’d  oblage  me  wid  repatin’  it  over 
again?  ” 

“ I can  never  have  any  hesitation,”  replied  the 
priest,  “ in  repeating  anything  to  his  advantage 
— I stated.  Darby,  that  young  Misther 
O’Shaughnessy  was  a youth  of  whom  my  opin- 
ion was  decidedly  peculiar — ^keep  basting,  child, 
you’re  forgetting  the  goose  now;  did  you  never 
see  a priest’s  boots  before?  ” 

“ An’  nobody  has  a better  right  to  know  nor 
yourself,  wherever  lamin’  and  education’s  con- 
sarned,”  said  the  father. 

“ Why,  it’s  not  long  since  I examined  him  my- 
self ; I say  it  sitting  here,  and  I believe  every  one 
that  hears  me  is  present;  and  during  the  course 
of  the  examination  I was  really  astonished.  The 
translations,  and  derivations,  and  conjugations, 
and  ratiocinations,  and  variations,  and  investiga- 
tions that  he  gave,  were  all  the  most  remarkably 
original  I ever  heard.  He  would  not  be  con- 
tented with  the  common  sense  of  a passage;  but 
he’d  keep  hunting,  and  hawking,  and  fishing 
about  for  something  that  was  out  of  the  ordinary 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


401 


course  of  reading,  that  I was  truly  struck  with 
his  eccentric  turn  of  genius.” 

“ You  think  he’ll  pass  the  Bishop  with  great 
credit,  Docthor?  ” 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what  I think,  Denis — which  is 
going  further  than  I went  yet — I think  that  if 
he  were  the  Bishop,  and  the  Bishop  the  candidate 
for  Maynooth,  that  his  lordship  would  have  but 
a poor  chance  of  passing.  There’s  the  pinnacle 
of  my  eulogium  upon  him;  and  now,  to  give  my 
opinion  on  another  important  subject;  I pro- 
nounce both  the  goose  and  mutton  done  to  a turn. 
As  it  appears  that  Mrs.  O’Shaughnessy  has  every 
other  portion  of  the  dinner  ready,  I move  that 
we  commence  operations  as  soon  as  possible.” 
“But  Denis,  Docthor?  it  would  be  a pleasure 
to  me  to  have  him,  poor  fellow,  wid  all  his 
throuble  over,  and  his  mind  at  ase;  maybe  if  we 
wait  a weeshy  while  longer,  Docthor,  that  he’ll 
come,  and  you  know  Father  Molony  too  is  to 
come  yet,  and  some  more  of  our  friends.” 

“If  the  examination  was  a long  one,  I tell  you 
that  Misther  O’Shaughnessy  may  not  be  here  this 
hour  to  come;  and  you  may  be  sure,  the  Bishop, 
meeting  such  a bright  boy,  wouldn’t  make  it  a 
short  one.  As  for  Father  JMolony,  he’ll  be  here 
time  enough,  so  I move  again  that  we  attack  the 
citadel.” 

“ Well,  well,  never  say  it  again — the  sarra  one 
o’  me  will  keep  it  back,  myself  bein’  as  ripe  as  any 
of  you,  barrin’  his  Reverence,  that  we’re  not  to 
take  the  foreway  of  in  anything.  Ha!  ha!  ha!  ” 
Whilst  Mave  and  her  daughters  were  engaged 

III— 56 


402 


IRELAND 


in  laying  dinner,  and  in  making  all  the  other 
arrangements  necessary  for  their  comfort,  the 
priest  took  Denis  aside,  and  thus  addressed 
him : — 

“ Denis,  I need  scarcely  remark,  that  this  meet- 
ing of  our  friends  is  upon  no  common  occasion; 
that  it’s  neither  a wedding,  nor  a Station,  nor  a 
christening,  but  a gathering  of  relations  for  a 
more  honourable  purpose  than  any  of  them,  ex- 
cepting the  Station,  which  you  know  is  a religious 
rite,  I just  mention  this  privately,  lest  you 
might  not  be  properly  on  your  guard,  and  to  pre- 
vent any  appearance  of  maneness;  or — in  short, 
I hope  you  have  abundance  of  everything ; I hope 
you  have,  and  that  not  for  your  own  sake,  so 
much  as  for  that  of  your  son.  Remember  your 
boy,  and  what  he’s  designed  for,  and  don’t  let 
the  dinner  or  its  concomitants  be  discreditable  to 
him;  for,  in  fact,  it’s  his  dinner,  observe,  and  not 
yours.” 

“ I’m  thankful,  I’m  deeply  thankful,  an’  for 
ever  oblaged  to  your  Reverence  for  your  kind- 
ness; although  widout  at  all  makin’  little  of  it, 
it  wasn’t  wanted  here ; never  fear,  Docthor, 
there’ll  be  lashings  and  lavins.” 

“ Well,  but  make  that  clear,  Denis;  here  now 
are  near  two  dozen  of  us,  and  you  say  there  are 
more  to  come,  and  all  the  provision  I see  for  them 
is  a shoulder  of  mutton,  a goose,  and  sometliing 
in  that  large  pot  on  the  fire,  which  I suppose  is 
hung  beef.” 

“ Thrue  for  you.  Sir,  hut  you  don’t  know  that 
we’ve  got  a tarin’  fire  down  in  the  barn,  where 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


403 


there’s  two  geese  more  and  two  shouldliers  of 
mutton  to  help  what  you  seen — not  to  mintion  a 
great  big  puddin’,  an’  lots  of  other  things.  Sure 
you  might  notice  JMave  and  the  girls  lainnin’  in 
an’  out  to  attind  the  cookin’  of  it.” 

“Enough,  Denis,  that’s  sufficient;  and  now, 
between  you  and  me,  I say  your  son  will  be  the 
load-star  of  Maynooth,  which  out-tops  anything 
I said  of  him  yet.” 

“ There’s  a whole  keg  of  whiskey,  Docthor.” 

“ I see  nothing  to  prevent  him  from  being  a 
Rishop;  indeed,  it’s  almost  certain,  for  he  can’t 
he  kept  back.” 

“ I only  hope  your  Reverence  will  be  livin’ 
when  he  praches  his  first  sermon.  I have  the 
dam  of  the  coult  still,  an’  a wink’s  as  good  as  a 
nod,  please  your  Reverence.” 

“ A strong  letter  in  his  favour  to  the  President 
of  Maynooth  will  do  him  no  harm,”  said  the 
priest. 

They  then  joined  their  other  friends,  and  in  a 
few  minutes  an  excellent  dinner,  plain  and  abun- 
dant, was  spread  out  upon  the  table.  It  con- 
sisted of  the  usual  materials  which  constitute  an 
Irish  feast  in  the  house  of  a wealthy  farmer, 
whose  pride  it  is  to  compel  every  guest  to  eat  so 
long  as  he  can  swallow  a morsel.  There  were 
geese  and  fowl  of  all  kinds — shoulders  of  mut- 
ton, laughing-potatoes,  carrots,  parsnips,  and  cab- 
bage, together  with  an  immense  pudding,  boiled 
in  a clean  sheet,  and  ingeniously  kept  together 
with  long  straws  drawn  through  it  in  all  direc- 
tions. A lord  or  duke  might  be  senseless  enough 


404 


IRELAND 


to  look  upon  such  a substantial  yeoman-like  meal 
with  a sneer;  but  with  all  their  wealth  and  ele- 
gance, perhaps  they  might  envy  the  health  and 
appetite  of  those  who  partook  of  it.  When  Fa- 
ther Finnerty  had  given  a short  grace,  and  the 
operations  of  the  table  were  commenced,  Denis 
looked  round  him  with  a disappointed  air,  and 
exclaimed, 

“Father  Finnerty,  there’s  only  one  thing,  in- 
deed I may  say  two,  a wantin’  to  complate  our 
happiness — I mean  Denis  and  Father  Molonyl 
What  on  earth  does  your  Reverence  think  can 
keep  them?  ” 

To  this  he  received  not  a syllable  of  reply,  nor 
did  he  consider  it  necessary  to  urge  the  question 
any  further  at  present.  Father  Finnerty ’s  pow- 
ers of  conversation  seemed  to  have  abandoned 
him;  for  although  there  were  some  few  expres- 
sions loosely  dropped,  yet  the  worthy  priest  main- 
tained an  obstinate  silence. 

At  length,  in  due  time,  he  began  to  let  fall  an 
occasional  remark,  impeded  considerably  by  hic- 
cups, and  an  odd  Deo  Gratias,  or  Laus  Deo, 
uttered  in  that  indecisive  manner  which  indicates 
the  position  of  a man  who  debates  within  himself, 
whether  he  ought  to  rest  satisfied  or  not. 

At  this  moment  the  trampling  of  a horse  was 
heard  approaching  the  door,  and  immediately 
every  one  of  Denis’s  family  ran  out  to  ascertain 
whether  it  was  the  young  candidate.  Loud  and 
clamorous  was  their  joy  on  finding  that  they  were 
not  mistaken;  he  was  alone,  and,  on  arriving  at 
the  door,  dismounted  slowly,  and  received  their 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


405 


welcomes  and  congratulations  with  a philosophy 
which  perplexed  them  not  a little.  The  scene  of 
confusion  which  followed  his  entrance  into  the 
house  could  scarcely  be  conceived : every  hand  was 
thrust  out  to  welcome  him,  and  every  tongue  loud 
in  wishing  him  joy  and  happiness.  The  chairs 
and  stools  were  overturned  as  they  stood  in  the 
way  of  those  who  wished  to  approach  him ; plates 
fell  in  the  bustle,  and  wooden  trenchers  trundled 
along  the  ground;  the  dogs,  on  mingling  with 
the  crowd  that  surrounded  him,  were  kicked 
angrily  from  among  them  by  those  who  had  not 
yet  got  shaking  hands  with  Denis.  Father  Fin- 
nerty,  during  this  commotion,  kept  his  seat  in  the 
most  dignified  manner;  but  the  moment  it  had 
subsided,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Denis,  ex- 
claiming, 

‘‘  Mr.  O’Shaughnessy,  I congratulate  you 
upon  the  event  of  this  auspicious  day ! I wish  j^ou 
joy  and  happiness!  ” 

“ So  do  we  all,  over  and  over  agin!  ” they  ex- 
claimed; “a  proud  gintleman  he  may  be  this 
night ! ” 

‘‘  I thank  you,  Father  Finnerty,”  said  Denis, 

and  I thank  you  all!  ” 

“ Denis  avourneen,”  said  his  mother,  “ sit  down 
an’  ate  a hearty  dinner;  you  must  be  both  tired 
and  hungry,  so  sit  down,  avick,  and  when  you’re 
done  you  can  tell  us  all.” 

Bonum  concilium,  mi  chare  Dionysi — the  ad- 
vice is  good,  Mrs.  O’Shaughnessy,  and  I myself 
will,  in  honour  of  this  day,  although  I have 
already  dined,  just  take  another  slice;  ” and  as  he 


406 


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spoke  he  helped  himself.  “ Anything  to  honour 
a friend,”  he  continued;  “ hut,  by  the  by,  before 
I commence,  I will  try  your  own  prescription, 
Denis — a whetter  of  this  poteen  at  intervals. 
Hoch,  that’s  glorious  stuff- — pure  as  any  one  of 
the  cardinal  virtues,  and  strong  as  fortitude, 
which  is  the  champion  of  them  all.” 

Denis,  during  these  pleasant  observations  of 
the  priest,  sat  silent,  with  a countenance  pale  and 
apparently  dejected.  When  his  mother  had 
filled  his  plate,  he  gently  put  it  away  from  him; 
but  poured  out  a little  spirits  and  water,  which 
he  drank. 

“I  cannot  eat  a morsel,”  said  he;  ‘‘mother, 
don’t  press  me,  it’s  impossible.  We  are  all  as- 
sembled here — friends,  neighbours,  and  relations 
— I’ll  not  disguise  the  fact — but  the  truth  is,  I 
have  been  badly  treated  this  day;  I have  been, 
in  the  most  barefaced  manner,  rejected  by  the 
Bishop,  and  a nephew  of  Father  Molony’s 
elected  in  my  place.” 

The  effect  which  this  disclosure  produced  upon 
the  company  present,  especially  upon  his  own 
family,  utterly  defies  description.  His  father 
hastily  laid  down  his  glass,  and  his  eyes  opened 
to  the  utmost  stretch  of  their  lids;  his  mother  let 
a plate  fall  which  she  was  in  the  act  of  handing 
to  one  of  her  daughters,  who  was  about  to  help 
a poor  beggar  at  the  door;  all  convivial  enjoy- 
ment was  suspended;  the  priest  laid  down  his 
knife  and  fork,  and  fixed  his  large  eyes  upon 
Denis,  with  his  mouth  full;  his  young  sister, 
Susan,  flew  over  to  his  side,  and  looked  intensely 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


407 


into  his  countenance  for  an  explanation  of  what 
he  meant,  for  she  had  not  properly  understood 
him. 

“ Rejected!  ” exclaimed  the  priest — “ rejected! 
Young  man,  I am  your  spiritual  superior,  and  I 
command  you,  on  this  occasion,  to  practise  no 
jocularity  whatsoever — I lay  it  upon  you  as  a 
religious  duty  to  be  serious  and  candid,  to  speak 
truth,  and  inform  us  at  once  whether  what  you 
have  advanced  be  true  or  not?  ” 

“ I wish,”  said  Denis,  “ that  it  was  only  joc- 
ularity on  my  part;  but  I solemnly  assure  you 
all  that  it  is  not.  The  Bishop  told  me  that  I 
suffered  myself  to  be  misled  as  to  my  qualifica- 
tions for  entrance;  he  says  it  will  take  a year  and 
a half’s  hard  study  to  enable  me  to  matriculate 
with  a good  grace.  I told  him  that  your  Rever- 
ence examined  me,  and  said  I was  well  prepared ; 
and  he  said  to  me  in  reply,  that  your  Reverence 
was  very  little  of  a judge  as  to  my  fitness.” 

“ Very  well,”  said  the  priest,  “ I thank  his  lord- 
ship;  ’tis  true,  I deserved  that  from  him;  but  it 
can’t  be  helped.  I see,  at  all  events,  how  the  land 
lies.  Denis  O’Shaughnessy,  I pronounce  you  to 
be,  in  the  first  place,  an  extremely  stultified  and 
indiscreet  young  man;  and,  in  the  next  place,  as 
badly  treated,  and  as  oppressed  a candidate  for 
Maynooth  as  ever  entered  it.  I pronounce  you, 
in  the  face  of  the  world,  right  well  prepared  for 
it ; but  I see  now  who  is  the  spy  of  the  diocese — 
oh,  oh,  thank  you,  Misther  Molony — I now  re- 
mimher,  that  he  is  related  to  his  lordship  through 
the  beggarly  clan  of  the  M ’s.  But  wait  a 


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little;  if  I have  failed  here,  thank  Heaven  I have 
interest  in  the  next  diocese,  the  Bishop  of  which 
is  my  cousin,  and  we  will  yet  have  a tug  for  it.” 

The  mother  and  sisters  of  Denis  were  now 
drowned  in  tears ; and  the  grief  of  his  sister  Susan 
was  absolutely  hysterical.  Old  Denis’s  brow  be- 
came pale  and  sorrowful,  his  eye  sunk,  and  his 
hand  trembled.  His  friends  all  partook  of  this 
serious  disappointment,  and  sat  in  silence  and 
embarrassment  around  the  table.  Young  Denis’s 
distress  was  truly  intense:  he  could  not  eat  a 
morsel;  his  voice  was  tremulous  with  vexation; 
and,  indeed,  altogether  the  aspect  of  those  present 
betokened  the  occurrence  of  some  grievous  afflic- 
tion. 

“ Well,”  said  Brian,  Denis’s  elder  brother,  “ I 
only  say  this,  that  it’s  a good  story  for  him  to  tell 
that  he  is  a Bishop,  otherwise  I’d  think  no  more 
of  puttin’  a bullet  through  him  from  behind  a 
hedge,  than  I would  of  shootin’  a cur  dog.” 

“ Don’t  say  that,  Brian,”  said  his  mother;  “ bad 
as  it  is,  he’s  one  of  our  clargy,  so  don’t  spake  dis- 
respectful of  him ; sure  a year  is  not  much  to  wait, 
an’  the  next  time  you  go  before  him  it  won’t  be 
in  his  power  to  keep  you  back.  As  for  Father 
Molony,  we  wish  him  well,  but  undher  the  roof 
of  this  house,  except  at  a Station,  or  something 
else  of  the  kind,  he  will  never  sit,  barrin’  I thought 
he  was  either  dhry  or  hungry,  that  I wouldn’t 
bring  evil  upon  my  substance  by  refusin’  him.” 

“ And  that  w^as  his  lordship’s  character  of 
me?  ” inquired  the  priest  once  more  with  chagrin. 

“If  that  was  not,  perhaps  you  will  find  it  in 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


409 


this  letter,”  replied  Denis,  handing  him  a written 
communication  from  the  Bishop.  Father  Fin- 
nerty  hastily  broke  open  the  seal,  and  read 
silently  as  follows: — 

" To  the  Rev.  Father  Finnerty,  peace,  and  benediction. 

“ Rev.  Sir, 

“ I feel  deep  indignation  at  hearing  the  diselosure  made 
to  me  this  day  by  the  bearer,  touehing  your  negotiation 
with  him  and  his  family,  concerning  a horse,  as  the  value 
paid  by  them  to  you  for  procuring  the  use  of  my  influence 
in  his  favour;  and  I cannot  sufficiently  reprobate  such  a 
transaction,  nor  find  terms  strong  enough  in  which  to  con- 
demn the  parties  concerned  in  it.  Sir,  I repeat  it,  that 
such  juggling  is  more  reprehensible  on  your  part  than  on 
theirs,  and  that  it  is  doubly  disrespectful  to  me,  to  suppose 
that  I could  be  influenced  by  any  thing  but  merit  in  the 
candidates.  I desire  you  will  wait  upon  me  to-morrow, 
when  I hope  you  may  be  able  to  place  the  transaction  in 
such  a light  as  will  raise  you  once  more  to  the  estimation 
in  which  I have  always  held  you.  There  are  three  other 
candidates,  one  of  whom  is  a relation  of  your  excellent 
curate’s;  but  I have  as  yet  made  no  decision,  so  that  the 
appointment  is  still  open.  In  the  mean  time,  I command 
you  to  send  back  the  horse  to  his  proper  owner,  as  soon 
after  the  receipt  of  this  as  possible,  for  O’Shaughnessy 
must  not  be  shackled  by  any  such  stipulations.  I have  now 
to  ask  your  Christian  forgiveness  for  having,  under  the 
influence  of  temporary  anger,  spoken  of  you  before  this 
lad  with  disrespect.  I hereby  make  restitution,  and  beg 
that  you  will  forgive  me,  and  remember  me  by  name  in 
your  prayers,  as  I shall  also  name  you  in  mine. 

“ I am,  &c. 

— James  M.” 

When  Father  Finnerty  read  this  letter,  his 
countenance  gradually  assumed  an  expression  of 
the  most  irresistible  humour;  nothing  could  be 


410 


IRELAND 


more  truly  comic  than  the  significant  look  he 
directed  at  each  individual  of  the  O’Shaughnes-- 
sys,  not  omitting  even  the  httle  boy  who  had 
basted  the  goose,  whom  he  patted  on  the  head 
with  that  mechanical  abstraction  resulting  from 
the  occurrence  of  something  highly  agreeable. 
The  cast  of  his  features  was  now  the  more  ludi- 
crous, when  contrasted  with  the  rueful  visage  he 
presented  on  hearing  the  manner  in  which  his 
character  had  been  delineated  by  the  Bishop.  At 
length  he  laid  himself  back  in  his  chair,  and  put- 
ting his  hands  to  his  sides,  fairly  laughed  out 
loudly  for  near  five  minutes. 

“Oh!”  he  exclaimed,  “Dionysius,  Dionysius, 
but  you  are  the  simple  and  unsophisticated  youth  1 
Oh,  you  hocaun  of  the  wide  earth,  to  come  home 
with  a long  face  upon  you,  telling  us  that  you 
were  rejected,  and  you  not  rejected.” 

“Not  rejected! — not  rejecet! — not  rejeckset! 
— not  raxjaxet!  ” they  all  exclaimed,  attempting 
to  pronounce  the  word  as  well  as  they  could. 

“For  the  sake  of  heaven  above  us,  Docthor, 
don’t  keep  us  in  doubt  one  minute  longer,”  said 
old  Denis. 

“ Follow  me,”  said  the  priest,  becoming  in- 
stantly grave,  “ follow  me,  Dionysius;  follow  me 
Denis  More,  and  Brian,  all  follow — follow  me, 
I have  news  for  you ! My  friends,  we’ll  be  back 
instantly.” 

They  accordingly  passed  into  another  room, 
where  they  remained  in  close  conference  for  about 
a quarter  of  an  hour,  after  which  they  re-entered 
in  the  highest  spirits. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


411 


“ Come,”  said  Denis,  “ Pether,  go  over, 
abouchal,  to  Andy  Bradagh’s  for  Larry  Cassidy 
the  piper — fly  like  a swallow,  Pether,  an’  don’t 
come  without  him.  Mave,  achora,  all’s  right. 
Susy,  you  darlin’,  dhry  your  eyes,  avourneen,  all’s 
right.  Nahours,  friends — All,  fill — I say  all’s 
right  still.  ]\Iy  son’s  not  disgraced,  nor  he  won’t 
be  disgraced  whilst  I have  a house  over  my  head, 
or  a beast  in  my  stable.  Docthor,  reverend  Doc- 
thor,  drink;  may  I never  sin,  but  you  must  get 
merry,  an’  dance  a ^ cut-along  ^ wid  myself,  when 
the  music  comes,  and  you  must  thrip  the  ‘ priest 
in  his  boots  ’ wid  Susy  here  afther.  Excuse  me, 
nabours — Docthor,  you  won’t  blame  me,  there’s 
both  joy  and  sorrow  in  these  tears,  I have  had 
a good  family  of  childhre,  an’  a faithful  wife;  an’ 
Mave,  achora,  although  time  has  laid  his  mark 
upon  you,  as  well  as  upon  myself,  and  the  locks 
are  grey  that  wor  once  as  black  as  a raven:  yet, 
Mave,  I seen  the  day,  an’  there’s  many  livin’  to 
prove  it — ay,  Mave,  I seen  the  day  when  you  wor 
worth  lookin’  at — the  wild  rose  of  Lisbuie  she 
was  called,  Docthor.  Well,  Mave,  I hope  that 
my  eyes  may  be  closed  by  the  hands  I loved  an’ 
love  so  well — an’  that’s  your  own,  agrah  machree, 
an’  Denis’s.” 

“ Whisht,  Denis  asthore,”  said  Mave,  wiping 
her  eyes,  “ I hope  I’ll  never  see  that  day.  Afther 
seein’  Denis  here,  what  we  all  hope  him  to  be,  the 
next  thing  I wish  is,  that  I may  never  live  to 
see  my  husband  taken  away  from  me,  acushla;  no, 
I hope  God  will  take  me  to  himself  before  that 
comes.” 


412 


IRELAND 


There  is  something  touching  in  the  burst  of 
pathetic  aiFection  which  springs  strongly  from 
the  heart  of  a worthy  couple,  when,  seated  among 
their  own  family,  the  feelings  of  the  husband  and 
the  father,  the  wife  and  the  mother,  overpower 
them.  In  this  case,  the  feeling  is  always  deep 
in  proportion  to  the  strength  and  purity  of  do- 
mestic aff ection ; still  it  is  checked  by  the  melan- 
choly satisfaction,  that  our  place  is  to  be  filled 
by  those  who  are  dear  to  us. 

“ But  now,”  said  the  priest,  “ that  the  scent  lies 
still  warm,  let  me  ask  you,  Dionysius,  how  the 
Bishop  came  to  understand  the  compactum? 

“ I really  cannot  undertake  to  say,”  replied 
Denis;  “ but  if  any  man  has  an  eye  like  a basileus 
he  has.  On  finding.  Sir,  that  there  was  some 
defect  in  my  responsive  powers,  he  looked  keenly 
at  me,  closing  his  piercing  eyes  a little,  and  in- 
quired upon  what  ground  I had  presented  myself 
as  a candidate.  I would  have  sunk  the  compac- 
tum altogether,  but  for  the  eye.  I suspended 
and  hesitated  a little,  and  at  length  told  him  that 
there  was  an  understanding — a — a — kind  of — in 
short,  he  squeezed  the  whole  secret  out  o’  me 
gradationally.  You  know  the  result!  ” 

“ Ah,  Dionysius,  you  are  yet  an  unfledged 
bird;  but  it  matters  little.  All  will  be  rectified 
soon.” 

“ Arrah,  Dinis,”  inquired  his  mother,  “ was  it 
only  takin’  a rise  out  of  us  you  wor  all  the  time? 
Throth  myself ’s  not  the  betther  of  the  fright  you 
put  me  into.” 

“No,”  replied  Denis,  “ the  Bishop  treated  me 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


413 


harshly  I thought : he  said  I was  not  properly  fit. 
‘ You  might  pass,’  said  he,  ‘ upon  a particular 
occasion,  or  under  peculiar  circumstances;  but  it 
will  take  at  least  a year  and  a half’s  study,  to 
enable  you  to  enter  Maynooth  as  I would  wish 
you.  You  may  go  home  again,’  said  he;  ‘at 
present  I have  dismissed  the  subject.’ 

“After  this,  on  meeting  Father  Molony,  he 
told  me  that  his  cousin  had  passed,  and  that  he 
would  be  soon  sent  up  to  Maynooth:  so  I con- 
cluded all  hope  was  over  with  me;  but  I didn’t 
then  know  what  the  letter  to  Father  Finnerty 
contained.  I now  see  that  I may  succeed  still.” 

“ You  may  and  shall,  Denis;  but  no  thanks  to 
Father  Molony  for  that:  however,  I shall  keep 
my  eye  upon  the  same  curate,  never  fear.  Well, 
let  that  pass,  and  now  for  harmony,  conviviality, 
and  friendship.  Gentlemen,  fill  your  glasses — 
I mean  your  respective  vessels.  Come,  Denis 
More,  let  that  porringer  of  yours  be  a brimmer. 
Ned  Hanratty,  charge  your  noggin.  Darby, 
although  your  mug  wants  an  ear,  it  can  hold  the 
full  of  it.  Mrs.  O’Shaughnessy,  that  old  family 
cruiskeen  ought  to  be  with  your  husband:  but 
no  matther — 7ion  constat — Eh?  Dionysi?  Intel- 
ligisne? 

“ Intelligo,  dominef^ 

“ Here  then  is  health,  success,  and  prosperity 
to  Mr.  Dionysius  O’Shaughnessy,  jun.!  May 
he  soon  be  on  the  Retreat  in  the  vivacious  walls 
of  that  learned  and  sprightly  seminary,  May- 
nooth On  the  Retreat,  I say,  getting  fat 
upon  half  a meal  a day  for  the  first  week,  fasting 


414 


IRELAND 


tightly  against  the  grain,  praying  sincerely  for 
a set-in  at  the  king’s  mutton,  and  repenting  thor- 
oughly of  his  penitence!  ” 

“Well,  Docthor,  that  is  a toast.  Denis,  have 
you  nothing  to  say  to  that?  Won’t  you  stand 
up  an’  thank  his  Reverence,  any  how?  ” 

“ I am  really  too  much  oppressed  with  relaxa- 
tion,” said  Denis,  “ to  return  thanks  in  that  florid 
style  which  would  become  my  pretensions.  I can- 
not, however,  but  thank  Father  Finnerty  for  his 
ingenious  and  learned  toast,  which  does  equal 
honour  to  his  head  and  heart,  and  I might  super- 
add, to  his  intellects  also;  for  in  drinking  toasts, 
my  friends,  I always  elaborate  a distinction  be- 
tween strength  of  head  and  strength  of  intellect. 
I now  thank  you  all  for  having  in  so  liberal  a 
manner  drunk  my  health ; and  in  grateful  return, 
I request  you  will  once  more  fill  your  utensils, 
and  learnedly  drink — long  life  and  a mitre  to  the 
Reverend  Father  Finnerty,  of  the  Society  of  St. 
Dominick,  Doctor  of  Divinity  and  Parochial 
Priest  of  this  excellent  parish! — Propino  tihi  salu- 
tem^  Doctor  doctissime^  reverendissime,  et  sane- 
tissime;  nee  non  omnibus  amicis  hie  congregatis! 

The  priest’s  eye,  during  this  speech,  twinkled 
with  humour;  he  saw  clearly  that  Denis  thor- 
oughly understood  the  raillery  of  his  toast,  and 
that  the  compliment  was  well  repaid.  On  this 
subject  he  did  not  wish,  however,  to  proceed  fur- 
ther, and  his  object  now  was,  that  the  evening 
should  pass  off  as  agreeably  as  possible. 

Next  morning  Father  Finnerty  paid  Denis  a 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


415 


timely  visit,  having  first,  as  he  had  been  directed, 
sent  home  the  colt  a little  after  day-break.  They 
then  took  an  early  breakfast,  and  after  about  half 
an  hour’s  further  deliberation,  the  priest,  old 
Denis,  and  his  son — the  last  mounted  upon  the 
redoubtable  colt — proceeded  to  the  Bishop’s  resi- 
dence. His  lordship  had  nearly  finished  break- 
fast, which  he  took  in  his  study;  but  as  he  was 
engaged  with  his  brother,  the  barrister,  who  slept 
at  his  house  the  night  before,  in  order  to  attend 
a public  meeting  on  that  day,  he  could  not  be 
seen  for  some  time  after  they  arrived.  At  length 
they  were  admitted.  The  Right  Reverend  Doc- 
tor was  still  seated  at  the  breakfast  table,  dressed 
in  a morning  gown  of  fine  black  stuff,  such  as 
the  brothers  of  the  Franciscan  order  of  monks 
usually  wear,  to  which  order  he  belonged.  He 
wore  black  silk  stockings,  gold  knee-buckles  to 
his  small-clothes,  a rich  ruby  ring  upon  his  finger, 
and  a small  gold  cross,  set  with  brilliants,  about 
his  neck.  This  last  was  not  usually  visible;  but 
as  he  had  not  yet  dressed  for  the  day,  it  hung 
over  his  vest.  He  sat,  or  rather  lolled  back  in 
a stuffed  easy  chair,  one  leg  thrown  indolently 
over  the  other.  Though  not  an  old  man,  he  wore 
powder,  which  gave  him  an  air  of  greater  rever- 
ence; and  as  his  features  were  sharp  and  intelh- 
gent,  his  eye  small  but  keen,  and  his  manner 
altogether  impressive  and  gentlemanly,  if  not 
dignified,  it  was  not  surprising  that  Father  Fin- 
nerty’s  two  companions  felt  awed  and  embar- 
rassed before  him.  Nor  was  the  priest  himself 


416 


IRELAND 


wholly  free  from  that  humbling  sensation  which 
one  naturally  feels  when  in  the  presence  of  a 
superior  mind  in  a superior  station  of  hfe. 

“Good  morning  to  your  lordship!”  said  the 
priest,  ‘‘  I am  exceedingly  happy  to  see  you  look 
so  well.  Counsellor,  your  most  obedient ; I hope, 
Sir,  you  are  in  good  health ! ” 

To  this  both  gentlemen  replied  in  the  usual 
common-place  terms. 

“ Docthor,”  continued  the  priest,  “ this  is  a 
worthy  dacent  parishioner  of  mine,  Denis 
O’Shaughnessy;  and  this  is  his  son  who  has  the 
honour  to  be  already  known  to  your  lordship.” 
“ Sit  down,  O’Shaughnessy,”  said  the  bishop, 
“ take  a seat,  young  man.” 

“ I humbly  thank  your  lordship,”  replied  Denis 
the  elder,  taking  a chair  as  he  spoke,  and  laying 
his  hat  beside  him  on  the  carpet. 

The  son,  who  trembled  at  the  moment  from 
head  to  foot,  did  not  sit  as  he  was  asked,  but  the 
father,  after  giving  him  a pluck,  said  in  a whis- 
per, “ Can’t  you  sit  when  his  lordship  bids  you.” 
He  then  took  a seat,  but  appeared  scarcely  to 
know  whether  he  sat  or  stood. 

“ By  the  by.  Doctor,  you  have  improved  this 
place  mightily,”  continued  Father  Finnerty, 
“ since  I had  the  pleasure  of  being  here  last.  I 
thought  I saw  a green-house  peeping  over  the 
garden-wall.” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  Bishop,  “ I am  just  begin- 
ning to  make  a collection  of  shrubs  and  flowers 
upon  a small  scale.  I believe  you  are  aware  that 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  417 

tending  and  rearing  flowers,  Mr.  Finnerty,  is  a 
favourite  amusement  with  me.” 

“ I believe  I have  a good  right  to  know  as 

much,  Dr.  M replied  Mr.  Finnerty.  “If 

I don’t  mistake,  I sent  you  some  specimens  for 
your  garden  that  were  not  contemptible.  And 
if  I don’t  mistake  again,  I shall  be  able  to  send 
your  lordship  a shrub  that  would  take  the  pearl 
off  a man’s  eye  only  to  look  at  it.  And  what’s 
more,  it’s  quite  a new  comer;  not  two  years  in 
the  country.” 

“ Pray  how  is  it  called,  Mr.  Finnerty?  ” 

“ Upon  my  credit.  Doctor,  with  great  respect, 
I will  tell  you  nothing  more  about  it  at  present. 
If  you  wish  to  see  it,  or  to  know  its  name,  or 
to  get  a slip  of  it,  you  must  first  come  and  eat 
a dinner  with  me.  And,  Counsellor,  if  you,  too, 
could  appear  on  your  own  behalf,  so  much  the 
better.” 

“ I fear  I cannot,  Mr.  Finnerty,  but  I dare 
say  my  brother  will  do  himself  the  pleasure  of 
dining  with  you.” 

“ It  cannot  be  for  at  least  six  weeks,  Mr.  Fin- 
nerty,” said  the  Bishop.  “ You  forget  that  the 
confirmations  begin  in  ten  days ; but  I shall  have 
the  pleasure  of  dining  with  you  when  I come  to 
confirm  in  your  parish.” 

“ Phoo  1 Why,  Doctor,  that’s  a matter  of 
course.  Couldn’t  your  lordship  make  it  con- 
venient to  come  during  the  week,  and  bring  the 
Counsellor  here  with  you?  Don’t  say  no,  Coun- 
sellor; I’ll  have  no  demurring.” 

Ill— 27 


418 


IRELAND 


“ Mr.  Finnerty,”  said  the  Bishop,  “ it  is  im- 
possible at  present.  My  brother  goes  to  Dublin 
to-morrow,  and  I must  go  on  the  following  day 
to  attend  the  consecration  of  a chapel  in  the 
metropolis.” 

“ Then  upon  my  credit,  your  lordship  will  get 
neither  the  name  nor  description  of  my  Fucia, 
until  you  earn  it  by  eating  a dinner,  and  drinking 
a glass  of  claret  with  the  Rev.  Father  Finnerty. 
Are  those  hard  terms,  Counsellor? — Ha!  ha!  ha! 
I’m  not  the  man  to  be  put  off  a thing,  I assure 
you.” 

‘ Mr.  Finnerty,”  said  the  Bishop,  smiling  at, 
but  not  noticing  the  worthy  priest’s  blunder  about 
the  Fucia,  “ if  possible,  I shall  dine  with  you 
soon;  but  at  present  it  is  out  of  my  power  to 
appoint  a day.” 

“ Well,  well.  Doctor,  make  your  own  time  of 
it;  and  now  for  the  purport  of  our  journey. 
Denis  O’Shaughnessy  here,  my  lord,  is  a warm 
respectable  parishioner  of  mine — a man  indeed 
for  whom  I have  a great  regard.  He  is  reported 
to  have  inherited  from  his  worthy  father,  two 
horns  filled  with  guineas.  His  grandmother,  as 
he  could  well  inform  your  lordship,  was  born  with 
a lucky  caul  upon  her,  which  caul  is  still  in  the 
family.  Isn’t  it  so,  Denis?  ” 

‘‘  My  lord,  in  dignity,  it’s  thruth,”  replied 
Denis,  “ and  from  the  time  it  came  into  the  family 
they  always  thruv,  thanks  be  to  goodness ! ” 

The  lawyer  sat  eyeing  the  priest  and  Denis 
alternately,  evidently  puzzled  to  comprehend 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  419 

what  such  a remarkable  introduction  could  lead 
to. 

The  Bishop  seemed  not  to  be  surprised,  for  his 
features  betrayed  no  change  whatsoever. 

“ Having,  therefore,  had  the  necessary  means 
of  educating  a son  for  the  church,  he  has  accord- 
ingly prepared  this  young  man  with  much  anx- 
iety and  expense  for  ^laynooth.” 

“ Plase  your  lordship,”  said  Denis,  “ Docthor 
Finnerty  is  clothin’  it  betther  than  I could  do. 
My  heart  is  fixed  upon  seein’  him  what  we  all 
expect  him  to  be,  your  lordship.” 

“ Mr.  Finnerty,”  observed  the  Bishop,  “ you 
seem  to  be  intimately  acquainted  with  O’Shaugh- 
nessy’s  circumstances ; you  appear  to  take  a warm 
interest  in  the  family,  particularly  in  the  success 
of  his  son.” 

“Undoubtedly,  my  lord;  I am  particularly 
anxious  for  his  success.” 

“ You  received  my  letter  yesterday?  ” 

“ I am  here  to-day,  my  lord,  in  consequence 
of  having  received  it.  But,  by  the  by,  there  was, 
under  favour,  a slight  misconception  on  the  part 
of  your ” 

“ What  misconception,  Sir?  ” 

“ Why,  my  lord — Counsellor,  this  is  a — a — 
kind  of  charge  his  lordship  is  bringing  against 
me,  under  a slight  misconception.  My  lord,  the 
fact  is,  that  I didn’t  see  what  ecclesiastical  right 
I had  to  prevent  Denis  here  from  disposing  of 

his  own  property  to ” 

“ I expect  an  apology  from  you,  Mr.  Finnerty, 


420 


IRELAND 


but  neither  a defence  nor  a justification.  An 
attempt  at  either  will  not  advance  the  interests 
of  your  young  friend,  believe  me.” 

“ Then  I have  only  to  say  that  the  wish  ex- 
pressed in  your  lordship’s  letter  has  been  complied 
with.  But  wait  awhile,  my  lord,”  continued  the 
priest,  good-humouredly,  “ I shall  soon  turn  the 
tables  on  yourself.” 

“ How  is  that,  pray?  ” 

“ Why,  my  lord,  the  horse  is  in  your  stable,  and 
Denis  declares  he  will  not  take  him  out  of  it.” 

“ I have  not  the  slightest  objection  to  that,” 
replied  the  Bishop,  “ upon  the  express  condition 
that  his  son  shall  never  enter  Maynooth.” 

“For  my  part,”  observed  Mr.  Finnerty,  “I 
leave  the  matter  now  between  your  lordship  and 
O’Shaughnessy  himself.  You  may  act  as  you 
please.  Doctor,  and  so  may  he.” 

“ Mr.  Finnerty,  if  I could  suppose  for  a mo- 
ment that  the  suggestion  of  thus  influencing  me 
originated  with  you,  I would  instantly  deprive 
you  of  your  parish,  and  make  you  assistant  to 
your  excellent  curate,  for  whom  I entertain  a 
sincere  regard.  I have  already  expressed  my 
opinion  of  the  transaction  alluded  to  in  my  letter. 
You  have  frequently  offended  me,  Mr.  Finnerty, 
by  presuming  too  far  upon  my  good  temper,  and 
by  relying  probably  upon  your  own  jocular  dis- 
position. Take  care.  Sir,  that  you  don’t  break 
down  in  some  of  your  best  jokes.  I fear  that 
under  the  guise  of  humour,  you  frequently  avail 
yourself  of  the  weakness,  or  ignorance,  or  sim- 
phcity,  of  your  parishioners.  I hope,  Mr.  Fin- 


a'9l§B3 

\oii’i\i'!^0  «ft  wo-<\  b^OMbo't'\^5l 


Eagle’s  Nest,  Killarney 

Reproduced  from  an  Original  Photograph 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


421 


nerty,  that  while  you  laugh  at  the  jest,  they  don’t 
pay  for  it.” 

The  priest  here  caught  the  Counsellor’s  eye, 
and  gave  him  a dry  wink,  not  unperceived,  how- 
ever, by  the  Bishop,  who  could  scarcely  repress  a 
smile. 

“ You  should  have  known  me  better,  Mr.  Fin- 
nerty,  than  to  suppose  that  any  motive  could 
influence  me  in  deciding  upon  the  claims  of  candi- 
dates for  Maynooth,  besides  their  own  moral  char- 
acter and  literary  acquirements.  So  long  as  I 
live,  this,  and  this  alone,  shall  be  the  rule  of  my 
conduct,  touching  persons  in  the  circumstances 
of  young  O’Shaughnessy.” 

“ My  gracious  lord,”  said  Denis,  “ don’t  be 
angry  wid  Mr.  Finnerty.  I’ll  bear  it  all,  for  it 
was  my  fau’t.  The  horse  is  mine,  and  say  what 
you  will,  out  of  your  stable  I’ll  never  bring  him. 
I think,  wid  great  sibmission,  a man  may  do 
what  he  pleases  wid  his  own.” 

“ Certainly,”  said  the  Bishop!  “ my  consent  to 
permit  your  son  to  go  to  Maynooth  is  my  own. 
Now  this  consent  I will  not  give  if  you  press  that 
mode  of  argument  upon  me.” 

‘‘  My  Reverend  Lord,  as  heaven’s  above  me, 
I’d  give  all  I’m  worth  to  see  the  boy  in  May- 
nooth. If  he  doesn’t  go  afther  all  our  hopes, 
I’d  break  my  heart.”  He  was  so  deeply  affected 
that  the  large  tears  rolled  down  his  cheeks  as  he 
spoke. 

“Will  your  Lordship  buy  the  horse?”  he 
added;  “ I don’t  want  him,  and  you,  maybe,  do?  ” 
“ I do  not  want  him,”  said  the  Bishop,  “ and 


422 


IRELAND 


if  I did,  I would  not,  under  the  present  circum- 
stances, purchase  him  from  you.’^ 

Then  my  boy  won’t  get  in,  your  lordship. 
And  you’ll  neither  buy  the  horse,  nor  take  him 
as  a present.  My  curse  upon  him  for  a horse! 
The  first  thing  I’ll  do  when  I get  home  will  be 
to  put  a bullet  through  him,  for  he  has  been  an 
unlucky  thief  to  us.  Is  my  son  aquil  to  the 
others  that  came  to  pass  your  lordship?”  asked 
Denis. 

“ There  is  none  of  them  properly  qualified,” 
said  the  Bishop.  “ If  there  be  any  superiority 
among  them  your  son  has  it.  He  is  not  without 
natural  talent,  Mr.  Finnerty;  his  translations  are 
strong  and  fluent,  but  ridiculously  pedantic. 
That,  however,  is  perhaps  less  his  fault  than  the 
fault  of  those  who  instructed  him.” 

“Are  you  anxious  to  dispose  of  the  horse?” 
said  the  Counsellor. 

“ A single  day,  sir,  he’ll  never  pass  in  my 
stable,”  said  Denis ; “ he  has  been  an  unlucky 
baste  to  me  an’  mine,  an’  to  all  that  had  anything 
to  do  wid  him.” 

“ Pray  what  age  is  he?  ” 

“ Risin’  four,  sir;  ’deed  I believe  he’s  four  all 
out,  an’  a purty  devil’s  clip  he  is,  as  you’d  wish 
to  see.” 

“ Come,”  said  the  Counsellor,  rising,  “ let  us 
have  a look  at  him.  Mr.  Finnerty,  you’re  an  ex- 
cellent judge;  will  you  favour  me  with  your 
opinion?  ” 

The  priest  and  he,  accompanied  by  the  two 
O’Shaughnessys,  passed  out  to  the  stable  yard, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


423 


where  their  horses  stood.  As  they  went,  Father 
Fimierty  whispered  to  O’Shaiighnessy : — 

“ Now,  Denis,  is  your  time.  Strike  while  the 
iron  is  hot.  Don’t  take  a penny! — don’t  take  a 
fraction!  Get  into  a passion,  and  swear  you’ll 
shoot  him  unless  he  accepts  him  as  a present.  If 
he  does,  all’s  right ; he  can  twine  the  Bishop  round 
his  finger.” 

“I  see,  Sir,”  said  Denis;  “I  see!  Let  me 
alone  for  managin’  him.” 

The  barrister  was  already  engaged  in  examin- 
ing the  horse’s  mouth,  as  is  usual,  when  the  priest 
accosted  him  with — 

“ You  are  transgressing  etiquette  in  this  in- 
stance, Counsellor.  You  know  the  proverb — 
never  look  a gift  horse  in  the  mouth.” 

“ How,  Mr.  Finnerty? — a gift  horse!  ” 

“His  Reverence  is  right!”  exclaimed  Denis: 
“ the  sorra  penny  ever  will  cross  my  pocket  for 
the  same  horse.  You  must  take  him  as  he  stands, 
sir,  barrin’  the  bridle  an’  saddle,  that’s  not  my 
own.” 

“ He  will  take  no  money,”  said  the  priest. 

“ Nonsense,  my  dear  sir!  Why  not  take  a fair 
price  for  him?  ” 

“ Divil  the  penny  will  cross  my  pocket  for 
him,  the  unlucky  thief!”  replied  the  shrewd 
farmer, 

“ Then  in  that  case  the  negotiation  is  ended,” 
replied  the  barrister.  “ I certainly  will  not  ac- 
cept him  as  a present.  Why  should  I?  What 
claim  have  I on  Mr.  O’Shaughnessy?  ” 

“ I don’t  want  you  to  take  him,”  said  Denis; 


424 


IRELAND 


“ I want  nobody  to  take  him;  but  I know  the 
dogs  of  the  parish’ll  be  pickin’  his  bones  afore 
night.  You  may  as  well  have  him,  Sir,  as  not.” 

“ Is  the  man  serious,  Mr.  Finnerty?  ” 

“ I never  saw  a man  in  my  life  having  a more 
serious  appearance,  I assure  you,”  said  the  priest. 

“ By  Jove  it’s  a queer  business,”  rephed  the 
other:  “a  most  extraordinary  affair  as  I ever 
witnessed!  Why,  it  would  be  madness  to  de- 
stroy such  a fine  animal  as  that  1 The  horse  is  an 
excellent  one!  However,  I shall  certainly  not 
accept  him,  until  I ascertain  whether  I can  pre- 
vail upon  the  Bishop  to  elect  his  son  to  this 
vacancy.  If  I can  make  the  man  no  return  for 
him,  I shall  let  him  go  to  the  dogs.” 

“ Go  up  and  set  to  work,”  said  the  priest;  “ but 
remember  that  tace  is  Latin  for  a candle.  Keep 
his  lordship  in  the  dark,  otherwise  this  scion  is 
ousted.” 

“ True,”  said  the  other.  “ In  the  mean  time 
bring  them  into  the  parlour,  until  I try  what 
can  be  done.” 

“ Take  the  Bishop  upon  the  father’s  affection 
for  him,”  said  the  priest. 

“ You  are  right.  I am  glad  you  mentioned 
it.” 

“ The  poor  man  will  break  his  heart,”  said  the 
priest. 

“ He  will,”  responded  the  Counsellor,  smiling. 

“ So  will  the  mother,  too,”  said  the  priest,  with 
an  arch  look. 

“ And  the  whole  family,”  replied  the  Coun- 
sellor. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


425 


“ Go  up  instantly,”  said  the  priest;  “ you  have 
often  got  a worse  fee.” 

“ And,  perhaps,  with  less  prospect  of  success,” 
said  the  other.  “ Gentlemen,  have  the  goodness 
to  walk  into  the  parlour  for  a few  minutes,  while 
I endeavour  to  soften  my  brother  a little,  if  I 
can,  upon  this  untoward  business.” 

When  the  priest  and  his  two  friends  entered 
the  parlour,  which  was  elegantly  furnished,  they 
stood  for  a moment  to  survey  it.  Old  Denis, 
however,  was  too  much  engaged  in  the  subject 
which  lay  nearest  his  heart  to  take  pleasure  in 
anything  else;  at  least  until  he  should  hear  the 
priest’s  opinion  upon  the  posture  of  affairs. 

“What  does  your  Reverence  think?”  said 
Denis. 

“ Behave  yourself,”  replied  the  pastor.  “ None 
of  your  nonsense!  You  know  what  I think  as 
well  as  I do  myself.” 

“ But  will  Dionnisis  pass? — Will  he  go  to 
Maynooth?  ” 

“ Will  you  go  to  your  dinner  to-day,  or  to  your 
bed  to-night?  ” 

“ God  be  praised!  Well,  Docthor,  wait  till  we 
see  him  off,  then  I’ll  be  spakin’  to  you!  ” 

“ No,”  said  the  priest;  “ but  wait  till  you  take 
a toss  upon  this  sofa,  and  then  you  will  get  a 
taste  of  ecclesiastical  luxury.” 

“ Ay,”  said  Denis,  “ but  would  it  be  right  o’ 
me  to  sit  in  it?  Maybe  it’s  consecrated.” 

“ Faith,  you  may  swear  that;  but  it  is  to  the 
ease  and  comfort  of  his  lordship!  Come,  man, 
sit  down,  till  you  see  how  you’ll  sink  in  it.” 


426 


IRELAND 


“ Oh,  murdher!  ” exclaimed  Denis,  ‘‘  where  am 
I at  all?  Docthor  dear,  am  I in  sight?  Do  you 
see  the  crown  o’  my  head,  good  or  bad?  Oh, 
may  I never  sin,  but  that’s  great  state! — Well, 
to  be  sure!  ” 

“ Ay,”  said  the  priest,  “ see  what  it  is  to  be  a 
bishop  in  any  church!  The  moment  a man  be- 
comes a bishop,  he  fastens  tooth  and  nail  upon 
luxury,  as  if  a mitre  was  a dispensation  for  en- 
joying the  world  that  they  have  sworn  to  re- 
nounce. Dionysius,  look  about  you!  Isn’t  this 
worth  studying  for?  ” 

“ Yes,”  replied  the  hitherto  silent  candidate, 
“ if  it  was  perusal  on  the  part  of  his  lordship  that 
got  it.” 

“ Upon  my  credit,  a shrewd  observation!  Ah, 
Dionysius,  merit  is  overlooked  in  every  church, 
and  in  every  profession;  or  perhaps — hem! — 
ehem! — perhaps  some  of  your  reverend  friends 
might  be  higher  up!  I mean  nobody;  but  if 
sound  learning,  and  wit,  and  humour,  together 
with  several  other  virtues  which  I decline  enu- 
merating, could  secure  a mitre,  why  mitres  might 
be  on  other  brows.” 

‘‘  This  is  surely  great  state,”  observed  the  can- 
didate; “and  if  it  be  a thing  that  I matricu- 
late 

“ And  yet,”  said  the  priest,  interrupting  him, 
“ this  same  bishop — who  is,  no  doubt,  a worthy 
man,  but  who  has  no  natural  ear  for  a jest — was 
once  upon  a time  the  priest  of  an  indifferent 
good  parish,  like  myself;  ay,  and  a poor,  cow- 
ardly, culprit-looking  candidate,  ready  to  sink 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


427 


into  the  earth  before  his  bishop,  like  you.” 
“Me  cowardly!”  said  the  candidate:  “I  de- 
cline the  insinuation  altogether.  It  was  nothing 
but  veneration  and  respect,  which  you  know  we 
should  entertain  for  all  our  spiritual  supe- 
riors.” 

“ That’s  truth  decidedly;  though,  at  the  same 
time,  your  nerves  were  certainly  rather  entangled, 
like  a ravelled  hank.  But  no  matter,  man;  we 
have  all  felt  the  same  in  our  time.  Did  you 
observe  how  I managed  the  bishop?  ” 

“ I can’t  say  I did,”  replied  the  candidate,  who 
felt  hurt  at  the  imputation  of  cowardice,  before 
his  father;  “ but  I saw.  Sir,  that  the  bishop  man- 
aged you.” 

“ Pray  for  a longer  vision,  Dionysius.  I tell 
you  that  no  other  priest  in  the  diocese  could  have 
got  both  you  and  me  out  of  the  dilemma  in  which 
we  stood  but  myself.  He  has  taken  to  the  study 
of  weeds  and  plants  in  his  old  days;  and  I,  who 
have  a natural  taste  for  botany,  know  it  is  his 
weak  side.  I tell  you,  he  would  give  the  right 
of  filling  a vacancy  in  Maynooth  any  day  in  the 
year,  for  a rare  plant  or  flower.  So  much  for 
your  knowledge  of  human  nature.  You’ll  grant 
I managed  the  Counsellor?” 

“ Between  my  father  and  you.  Sir,  things  look 
well.  We  have  not,  however,  got  a certificate  of 
success  yet.” 

Patientia  fit  levior  ferendo! — Have  patience, 
man.  Wait  till  we  see  the  Counsellor!  ” 

He  had  scarcely  uttered  the  last  words  when 
that  gentleman  entered. 


428 


IRELAND 


“Well,  Counsellor,”  said  the  priest,  “is  it  a 
hit?  ” 

“ Pray  what  is  your  Christian  name,  Mr. 
O’Shaughnessy?  ” inquired  the  lawyer  of  young 
Denis. 

“ My  Christian  name.  Sir,”  replied  Denis,  “ is 
Di-o-ny-si-us  O’Shaughnessy.  That,  Sir,  is  the 
name  by  which  I am  always  appellated.” 

“ That’s  quite  sufficient,”  said  the  other.  “ I 
shall  be  with  you  again  in  a few  minutes.” 

“ But  won’t  you  give  us  a hint,  my  good  Sir, 
as  to  how  the  land  lies?  ” said  the  priest,  as  the 
lawyer  left  the  room. 

“ Presently,  Mr.  Finnerty,  presently.” 

“ Intelligisne,  Dionisi? 

Vioo,  Domine,  Quid  sentisf 
“ Quid  sentis!  No,  hut  it  was  good  fortune 
sent  us.  Don’t  you  persave,  Dionysius,  and  you, 
Denis — don’t  you  know,  I say,  that  this  letter 
of  admission  couldn’t  be  written  except  the 
Bishop  knew  his  name  in  full?  Unlucky  1 
Faith  if  ever  a horse  was  lucky  this  is  he.” 

“ I declare,  Docthor,”  said  the  father,  “ I can 
neither  sit  nor  stand,  nor  think  of  any  one  thing 
for  a minute,  I’m  so  much  on  the  fidgets  to  know 
what  the  Bishop  ’ill  say.” 

“ I also,”  said  Dionysius,  “ am  in  a state  of 
evaporation  and  uncertainty  touching  the  same 
point.  However,  this  I can  affirm  with  veracity, 
that  if  I am  rejected,  my  mind  is  made  up  to 
pursue  an  antithetical  course  of  life  altogether. 
If  he  rejects  me  now,  he  will  never  reject  me 
again.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


429 


“ Musha,  how — Denny — Dionnisis,  avick? 

What  do  you  mane?  ” said  the  father. 

“ I will  give,”  said  the  son,  “ what  is  desig- 
nated a loose  translation  of  my  meaning  to  JVIr. 
Finnerty  here,  if  I find  that  I am  excluded  on 
this  occasion.” 

“ And  if  you  do  succeed,”  said  the  priest,  “ I 
would  advise  you  to  hire  a loose  translator  dur- 
ing the  remainder  of  your  residence  among  us; 
for  upon  my  veracity,  Dionysius,  the  king’s 
English  will  perform  hard  duty  until  you  enter 
Maynooth.  Not  a word  under  six  feet  will  be 
brought  into  the  ranks — grenadiers  every  one  of 
them,  not  to  mention  the  thumpers  you  will 
coin.” 

“ Come,  Docthor  Finnerty,”  said  our  candi- 
date, pulling  up  a little,  “ if  the  base  Latin  which 
you  put  into  circulation  were  compared  with  my 
English  thumpers,  it  would  be  found  that  of  the 
two,  I am  more  legitimate  and  etymological.” 

“ I shall  be  happy  to  dispute  that  point  with 
you  another  time,”  said  the  priest,  “ when  we  can 
— Silence,  here  comes  the  Counsellor.” 

“ Mr.  O’Shaughnessy,”  said  the  lawyer,  ad- 
dressing the  candidate,  “ allow  me  to  congratulate 
you  on  your  success!  Your  business  is  accom- 
plished. The  Bishop  is  just  finishing  a letter  for 
you  to  the  President  of  Maynooth.  I assure  you, 
I feel  great  pleasure  at  your  success.” 

“ Accept  my  thanks.  Sir,”  said  Denis,  whose 
eye  was  instantly  lit  up  with  delight — “ accept  my 
most  obsequious  thanks  to  the  very  furthest  ex- 
tent of  my  gratitude.” 


430 


IRELAND 


The  Barrister  then  shook  hands  with  old  Denis. 
“ O’Shaughnessy,”  said  he,  “ I am  very  happy 
that  I have  had  it  in  my  power  to  serve  you  and 
your  son.” 

“ Counsellor,”  said  Denis,  seizing  his  hand  in 
both  his — “ Counsellor,  ahagur  machree — Coun- 
sellor, oh,  what — ^what — can  I say!  Is  he — ^is  it 
possible — is  it  thruth  that  my  boy  is  to  go  to 
Maynewth  this  time?  Oh,  if  you  knew,  hut 
knew,  the  heavy,  dead  weight  you  tuck  off  o’ 
my  heart!  Our  son  not  cast  aside — not  dis- 
graced!— for  what  else  would  the  people  think  it? 
The  horse ! — a poor  bit  of  a coult — a poor  unsig- 
nified animal!  To  the  devil  wid  him!  What  is 
he  compared  to  the  joy  an’  delight  of  this  min-‘‘ 
ute?  Take  him.  Sir;  take  him — an’  if  he  was 
worth  his  weight  in  goold,  I vow  to  Heaven  above 
me,  I’d  not  think  him  too  good.  Too  good! — 
no,  nor  half  good  enough  for  you.  God  remim- 
ber  this  to  you ! an’  he  will,  too.  Little  you  know 
the  happiness  you  have  given  us.  Counsellor! 
Little  you  know  it.  But  no  matther!  An’  you, 
too.  Father  Finnerty,  helped  to  bring  this  about. 
But  sure  you  were  ever  an’  always  our  friend! 
Well,  no  matther — no  matther!  God  will  reward 
you  both.” 

“ My  brother  wishes  to  see  Mr.  Finnerty  and 
your  son,”  said  the  barrister;  “I  think  they 
had  better  go  up  to  him.  He  is  anxious  to  get 
a slip  of  your  shrub,  Mr.  Finnerty.” 

“ Ah,  I thought  so,”  said  the  priest — “ I 
thought  as  much.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


431 


The  Bishop,  on  their  re-appearance,  presented 
Denis  with  the  long  wished-for  letter.  He  then 
gave  him  a suitable  exhortation  with  reference 
to  the  serious  and  responsible  duties  for  which 
he  was  about  to  prepare  himself.  After  con- 
cluding his  admonition,  he  addressed  Father 
Finnerty  as  follows: 

“ Now  Mr.  Finnerty,  this  matter  has  ended 
in  a manner  satisfactory,  not  only  to  your  young 
friend,  but  to  yourself.  You  must  promise  me 
that  there  shall  be  no  more  horse-dealing.  I do 
not  think  jockeying  of  that  description  either 
creditable  or  just.  I am  unwilling  to  use  harsher 
language,  but  I could  not  conscientiously  let  it 
pass  without  reproof.  In  the  next  place,  will 
you  let  me  have  a slip  of  that  flowering  shrub 
you  boast  of  ? ” 

“ Doctor,”  said  the  priest,  ‘‘  is  it  possible  you 
ask  it  of  me?  Why,  I think  your  lordship 
ought  to  know  that  it’s  your  own,  as  is  every  plant 
and  flower  in  my  garden  that  you  fancy.  Do 
you  dine  at  home  to-morrow,  my  Lord?  ” 

“ I do,”  said  the  Bishop. 

‘‘Well,  then,  I shall  come  up  with  a slip  or 
two  of  it,  and  dine  with  you.  I know  the  situa- 
tion in  which  it  grows  best;  and  knowing  this, 
I will  put  it  down  with  my  own  hands.  But  I 
protest,  my  lord,  against  your  allowing  me  to  be 
traced  in  the  business  of  the  shrub  at  all,  other- 
wise I shall  have  the  whole  county  on  my  back.” 

“Be  under  no  apprehension  of  that,  Mr. 
Finnerty.  I shall  be  happy  if  you  dine  with 


432 


IRELAND 


me;  but  bring  it  with  you.  How  did  you  come 
to  get  it  so  early  after  its  appearance  in  this 
country?  ” 

“ I got  it  from  head  quarters,  Doctor — from 
one  of  the  best  botanists  in  the  three  kingdoms; 
certainly  from  the  best  Irish  botanist  hving — 
my  friend,  Mr.  Mackay,  of  the  College  Botanic 
Gardens.  My  lord,  I wish  you  good  morning; 
but  before  I go,  accept  my  thanks  for  your  kind- 
ness to  my  young  friend.  I assure  you  he  will 
be  a useful  man;  for  he  is  even  now  no  in- 
different casuist.” 

“ And  I,  my  lord,”  said  Denis,  “ return  you 
my  most  grateful — hem — my  most  grateful — 
and — most  supercilious  thanks  for  the  favour — 
the  stupendous  favour  you  have  conferred  upon 
me.” 

“ God  bless  you,  my  dear  child,”  returned  the 
bishop ; “ but  if  you  be  advised  by  me,  speak 
more  intelligibly.  Use  plain  words,  and  discard 
all  difficult  and  pedantic,  expressions.  God 
bless  you!  Farewell!” 

On  coming  down,  they  found  old  Denis  in 
the  stable-yard  in  rather  a ridiculous  kind  of  har- 
ness. The  saddle  that  had  been  on  the  colt  was 
strapped  about  him  with  the  bridle,  for  both  had 
been  borrowed  from  a neighbour. 

‘‘  Dionnisis  an’  I must  both  ride  the  same 
horse,”  said  he,  “ an’  as  we  have  two  saddles,  I 
must  carry  one  of  them.” 

An  altercation  then  ensued  as  to  which  should 
ride  foremost.  The  son,  now  in  high  glee,  in- 
sisted on  the  father’s  taking  the  seat  of  honour; 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


433 


but  the  father  would  not  hear  of  this.  The 
lad  was,  in  his  opinion,  at  least  semi-clerical, 
and  to  ride  behind  would  he  a degradation  to 
so  learned  a youth.  They  mounted  at  length, 
the  son  foremost,  and  the  father  on  the  crupper, 
the  saddle  strapped  about  him,  with  the  stirrups 
dangling  by  the  horse’s  flanks.  Father  Fin- 
nerty,  who  accompanied  them,  could  not,  how- 
ever, on  turning  from  the  bishop’s  grounds  into 
the  highway,  get  a word  out  of  them.  The  truth 
is,  both  their  hearts  were  full;  both  were,  there- 
fore, silent,  and  thought  every  minute  an  hour 
until  they  reached  home. 

This  was  but  natural.  A man  may  conceal 
calamity  or  distress  even  from  his  dearest  friends; 
for  who  is  there  who  wishes  to  be  thrust  back 
from  his  acknowledged  position  in  life?  Or  who, 
when  he  is  thrust  back,  will  not  veil  his  mis- 
fortunes or  his  errors  with  the  guise  of  indif- 
ference or  simulation?  In  good  fortune  we  act 
differently.  It  is  a step  advanced;  an  elevation 
gained;  there  is  nothing  to  fear,  or  to  be  ashamed 
of,  and  we  are  as  strongly  prompted  by  vanity 
to  proclaim  it  to  the  world,  as  we  are  by  pride 
to  ascribe  its  occurrence  to  our  own  talents  or 
virtues.  There  are  other  and  purer  motives  for 
this.  The  affections  will  not  be  still;  they  seek 
the  hearts  to  which  they  tend;  and  having  found 
them,  the  mutual  interchange  of  good  takes 
place.  Father  Finnerty — ^whose  heart,  though 
a kind  one,  had,  probably,  been  too  long  out  of. 
practice  to  remember  the  influence  and  working 
of  the  domestic  affections — could  not  compre- 

III— 28 


434  IRELAND 

hend  the  singular  conduct  of  the  two  O’Shaugh- 
nessys. 

“What  the  devil  is  the  matter  with  you?” 
he  inquired.  “ Have  you  lost  the  use  of  your 
speech?  ” 

“ Push  an,  avourneen,”  said  the  father  to 
Denis — “ push  an ; lay  the  spur  to  him.  Isn’t 
your  spur  on  the  right  foot?  ” 

“ Most  certainly,”  said  Denis,  now  as  pedantic 
as  ever — “ most  certainly  it  is.  You  are  not 
to  be  informed  that  our  family  spur  is  a right- 
foot  spur.” 

“ Well,  then,  Pether  Gallagher’s  spur  that  I 
have  an  is  a left-foot  spur,  for  it’s  an  my  left 
foot.” 

“ You  are  a bright  pair,”  said  the  priest,  some- 
what nettled  at  their  neglect  of  him — “ you  are 
a bright  pair,  and  deeply  learned  in  spurs. 
Can’t  you  ride  asier?  ” 

“ Never  heed  him,”  said  the  father  in  a 
whisper;  “ do  you  give  the  mare  the  right  spur, 
an’  I’ll  give  her  the  left.  Push  an!  That’s 
it.” 

They  accordingly  dashed  forward,  Denis 
plying  one  heel,  and  the  father  another,  until 
the  priest  found  himself  gradually  falling  be- 
hind. In  vain  he  plied  hoth  spurs;  in  vain  he 
whipped,  and  wriggled  on  the  saddle,  and 
pressed  forward  his  hack.  Being  a priest’s 
horse,  the  animal  had  been  accustomed  for  the 
last  twelve  years  to  a certain  jog-trot-pace,  be- 
yond which  it  neither  would  nor  could  go.  On 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


435 


finding  all  his  efforts  to  overtake  them  unsuc- 
cessful, he  at  last  shouted  after  them. 

“ Do  you  call  that  gratitude,  my  worthy 
friends?  To  lave  me  creeping  over  the  ups  and 
downs  of  this  villanous  road  without  company?  ” 

“ Lay  an,  aroon,”  said  the  father.  “ Let  us 
get  home.  Oh,  how  your  poor  mother  will  die 
wid  joy,  an’  Susy,  an’  Nanny,  an’  Brian,  an’ 
Michael,  an’  Dick,  an’  Lanty,  an’  all  o’  them. 
Glor}^  be  to  Heaven!  what  a meetin’  we’ll  have! 
An’  the  nabours,  too!  Push  an,  avick  ma- 
chree.” 

“My  curse  upon  you.  Friar  Henessy!”  ex- 
claimed the  priest,  in  a soliloquy,  “ it  was  you 
who  first  taught  this  four-footed  snail  to  go 
like  a thief  to  the  gallows.  I wish  to  Heaven 
you  had  palmed  him  on  some  one  else,  for  many 
a dinner  I have  lost  by  him  in  my  time.  Is  that 
your  gratitude,  gentlemen?  Do  I deserve  this?  ” 

“ What  is  he  sayin’?  ” said  the  father. 

“ He  is  declaiming  about  gratitude,”  rephed 
Denis. 

“ Lav  an’  her,”  said  the  father.  “ Poor 
Mave!  ’’ 

“ Such  conduct  does  you  credit,”  shouted  the 
priest.  “ It’s  just  the  way  of  the  world.  You 
have  got  what  you  wanted  out  of  me,  an’  now 
you  throw  me  off.  However,  go  on.” 

“ What’s  that?  ” said  the  father  again. 

“ He  is  desiring  us  to  go  on,”  replied  the  son. 

“ Then,  in  the  name  o’  Goodness,  do  so, 
avourneen.  Susy  will  die  downright.” 


436 


IRELAND 


“Where  am  I do  dine  to-day?”  shouted  the 
priest,  in  a louder  voice.  “ I say,  where  am  I 
to  come  in  for  my  dinner,  for  I’m  not  expected 
at  home,  and  my  curate  dines  out?  ” 

“ I can’t  hear  him,”  said  the  father. 

“He  says  the  curate  dines  out ; an’  he  wants 
to  know  if  he’s  to  dine  with  us.” 

“ Throth,  an’  he  won’t ; not  that  we  begrudge 
it  to  him;  but  for  this  day  the  sarra  one  we’ll 
have  but  our  own  relations.  Push  an.  An’ 
Brian,  too,  poor  fellow,  that  was  always  so 
proud  of  you!” 

They  had  now  reached  the  top  of  an  ascent 
on  the  road,  whilst  the  priest  toiled  up  after 
them.  In  a few  minutes  they  began  to  descend, 
and  consequently  were  out  of  his  sight. 

No  description  of  mine  could  give  an  adequate 
perception  to  the  reader  of  what  was  felt  by  the 
family  on  hearing  that  the  object  of  Denis’s 
hopes,  and  their  owm  proud  ambition,  was  at 
length  accomplished.  The  Bishop’s  letter  was 
looked  at,  turned  in  every  direction,  and  the  seal 
inspected  with  a kind  of  wonderful  curiosity, 
such  as  a superstitious  person  would  manifest 
on  seeing  or  touching  some  sacred  relic.  The 
period  appointed  for  his  departure  now  de- 
pended upon  the  despatch  with  which  they  could 
equip  him  for  college.  But  until  this  event 
should  arrive,  his  friends  lost  no  opportunity 
of  having  him  among  them.  Various  were  the 
treats  he  got  in  fair  and  market.  Proud  were 
his  relations  when  paying  him  the  respect  which 
he  felt  right  sincere  pleasure  in  receiving.  The 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


43T 


medium  between  dignity  and  humility  which  he 
hit  off  in  these  scenes,  was  worthy  of  being  re- 
corded; but,  to  do  him  justice,  his  forte  lay  in 
humility.  He  certainly  condescended  with  a 
ffrace,  and  made  them  feel  the  honour  done  them 
by  his  vouchsafing  to  associate  with  such  poor 
creatures,  as  if  he  were  one  of  themselves.  To 
do  them  also  justice,  they  appeared  to  feel  his 
condescension;  and,  as  a natural  consequence, 
were  ready  to  lick  the  very  dust  under  his  feet, 
considering  him,  as  they  did,  a priest  in  every- 
thing but  ordination. 

Denis,  besides  his  intercourse  with  humble 
relatives,  was  now  asked  to  dine  with  the 
neighbouring  clergymen,  and  frequently  made 
one  at  their  parties.  In  the  beginning,  his  high 
opinion  and  awe  of  the  clerical  character,  kept 
him  remarkably  dull  and  sheepish.  Many  an 
excellent  joke  was  cracked  at  liis  expense;  and 
often  did  he  ask  himself  what  Phadrick  Murray, 
his  father’s  family,  or  his  acquaintances  in 
general,  would  say,  if  they  saw  his  learning  and 
his  logic  so  villanously  degraded.  In  proportion, 
however,  as  conviviality  developed  among  his 
reverend  friends  many  defects,  opinions,  and 
failings,  which  he  never  suspected  them  to  pos- 
sess, so  did  he  begin  to  gather  courage  and 
facility  of  expression.  By  degrees  he  proceeded 
modestly  from  the  mild  and  timid  effort  at  wit, 
to  the  steadier  nerve  of  moderate  confidence;  an- 
other step  brought  him  to  the  indifference  of  a 
man  who  can  bear  an  unsuccessful  attempt  at 
pleasantry,  without  being  discomposed;  the  third 


438 


IRELAND 


and  last  stage  advanced  him  to  downright  as- 
surance, which  having  reached,  he  stopped  at 
nothing.  From  this  forward  he  began  to  re- 
tort upon  his  clerical  companions,  who  found 
that  the  sheepish  youth  whom  they  had  often 
made  ridiculous,  possessed  skill,  when  properly 
excited,  to  foil  them  at  their  own  weapons.  He 
observed  many  things  in  their  convivial  meetings. 
The  holy  man,  whom  his  flock  looked  upon  as 
a being  of  the  highest  sanctity,  when  lit  up  into 
fun  and  frolic,  Denis  learned  to  estimate  at  his 
just  value.  He  thought,  besides,  that  a person 
resolved  to  go  to  heaven,  had  as  good  a chance 
of  being  saved  by  the  direct  mercy  of  God,  as 
through  the  ministration  of  men,  whose  only 
spiritual  advantage  over  himself  consisted  in 
the  mere  fact  of  being  in  orders.  To  be  sure, 
he  saw  the  usual  exceptions  among  them  that 
are  to  be  found  among  every  other  class;  but 
he  drew  his  conclusions  from  the  general  rule. 
All  this,  however,  failed  in  removing  that  funda- 
mental principle  of  honest  superstition  in  which 
he  had  been  trained.  The  clergymen  whom  he 
saw  were  only  a few  of  those  who  constituted  the 
great  body  of  the  church ; but  when  the  long  and 
sanctified  calendar  of  saints  and  miracles  opened 
upon  him,  there  still  remained  enough  to  throw 
a dim  and  solemn  charm  of  shadowy  pomp 
around  the  visions  of  a mind  naturally  imagina- 
tive. 

Messengers  were  once  more  sent  abroad,  to 
inform  their  friends  of  his  triumph,  who,  on  as- 
certaining that  his  journey  was  fixed  for  an  early 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


439 


day,  lost  no  time  in  pouring  in,  each  with  some 
gift  suited  to  their  circumstances.  Some  of  these 
were  certainly  original,  the  appropriateness  hav- 
ing been  in  every  case  determined  by  the  wealth 
or  poverty,  ignorance  or  knowledge,  of  those  who 
offered  them.  Some  poor  relation,  for  instance, 
brought  him  a shirt  or  two  of  materials  so  coarse, 
that  to  wear  it  in  a college  would  be  out  of  the 
question;  others  offered  him  a pair  of  brogues, 
much  too  vulgar  for  the  society  he  was  about  to 
enter;  others,  again,  would  present  him  with 
books — for  it  is  not  at  all  uncommon  to  find  in 
many  illiterate  Irish  families  half-a-dozen  old 
volumes  of  whose  contents  they  are  ignorant,  ly- 
ing in  a dusty  corner,  where  they  are  kept  till 
some  young  scion  shall  be  sufficiently  instructed 
to  peruse  them.  The  names  of  these  were 
singular  enough.  One  presented  him  with  “The 
Necessity  of  Penance;”  another  with  “Laugh 
and  be  Fat;  ” a third  with  the  “ Key  of  Para- 
dise; ” a fourth  with  “Hell  Open;”  a fifth 
handed  liim  a copy  of  the  “ Irish  Rogues  and 
Rapparees;”  a sixth  gave  him  “Butler’s  Lives 
of  Saints;  ” a seventh  “ The  Necessity  of  Fast- 
ing; ” an  eighth  “ The  Epicure’s  Fade  Mecuinf' 
The  list  ran  on  very  ludicrously.  Among  them 
were  the  “ Garden  of  Love  and  Royal  Flower 
of  Fidelity;”  “An  Essay  on  the  Virtue  of 
Celibacy;”  and  another  “On  the  Increase  of 
Population  in  Ireland.”  To  these  we  may  add 
“ The  Devil  upon  Two  Sticks,”  and  “ The  Life 
of  St.  Anthony.” 

“ Take  these,  Misther  Denis,”  said  the  worthy 


440 


IRELAND 


souls;  ‘‘they’re  of  no  use  to  us  at  all  at  all; 
but  they’ll  sarve  you,  of  coorse,  where  you’re 
goin’,  bekase  when  you  want  books  in  the  college 
you  can  use  them.” 

Honest  Phadrick  Murray,  in  lieu  of  a more 
valuable  present,  brought  him  his  wife’s  largest 
and  best  shawl  as  a pocket  handkerchief. 

“ Katty,  sir,  sent  you  this,”  said  Phadrick,  “ as 
a pocket  handkerchy ; an’  be  gorra,  Misther 
Denis,  if  you  begin  at  this  corner,  an’  take  it 
out  o’  the  face,  it’ll  last  you  six  months  at  a 
time,  any  how.” 

Another  neighbour  came  with  a cool  of  ren- 
dered lard,  hoping  it  might  be  serviceable. 

“ Norah,  sir,”  said  the  honest  friend  who 
brought  it,  “ sent  you  a crock  of  her  own  lard. 
When  you’re  makin’  colcanon,  sir,  or  sthilk, 
in  the  college,  if  you  slip  in  a lump  of  this,  it’ll 
save  you  the  price  of  butther.  The  grace  ’ill  be 
useful  to  you,  whether  or  not;  an’  they  say  there’s 
a scarcity  of  it  in  the  college.” 

A third  brought  him  an  oak  sapling  to  keep  in 
his  hand  about  the  purlieus  of  the  establishment. 

“We  know,”  said  he,  “that  you’re  given  to 
arguin’  an’  to  that  thing  you  call  logic,  Misther 
Denis.  Now,  Sir,  if  you’re  ever  hard  set  in  an 
argument  or  the  like  o’  that,  or  if  any  o’  the 
shthudjeents  ’ud  be  throublesome  or  imperant, 
why  give  them  a touch  o’  this — a lick  of  it,  do 
you  see;  jist  this  a way.  First  come  wid  a back 
sthroke  upon  the  left  ear,  if  they  want  to  be 
properly  convinced;  an’  thin  agin’  afore  they  have 
time  to  recover,  come  down  wid  a visitation  upon 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


441 


the  kidney.  ]\Iy  life  for  yours,  they’ll  soon  let 
you  alone.  Nothin’  puzzles  one  in  an  argument 
more  than  it  does.” 

“ Ay,”  said  Denis,  “ that  is  what  they  call  in 
the  books  the  argumejitum  hacidinum,  I accept 
your  present,  Roger ; but  I flatter  myself  I shall 
be  a match  for  any  of  the  collegians  without  hav- 
ing recourse  to  the  argiunentum  haculinum/^ 

A poor  old  widow,  who  was  distantly  related  to 
them,  came  upwards  of  four  miles  with  two  or 
three  score  of  eggs,  together  with  a cock  and  hen ; 
the  eggs  for  his  own  use,  and  the  latter  for  breed- 
ing in  Maynooth. 

“ Avourneen,  Misther  O’  Shaughnessy,”  said 
she,  in  broken  English,  when  you  ate  out  all 
the  eggs,  maybe  you  could  get  a sonsy  little  cor- 
ner about  the  collegian  that  you’re  goin’  to  larn 
to  be  a priest  in,  an’  put  them  both  into  it;” 

■ — pointing  at  the  same  time  to  the  cock  and  hen 
- — “ an’  whishper,”  she  continued,  in  a low 
friendly  voice,  “ if  you  could  get  a weeshy  wisp 
o’  sthraw,  an’  slip  it  undher  your  own  bed,  it 
would  make  a nest  for  them,  an’  they’d  lay  an 
egg  for  your  breakfast  all  days  in  the  year. 
But,  achora,  don’t  let  them  be  widout  a nest  egg ; 
an’  whishper — maybe  you’d  breed  a clackin’  out 
o’  them,  that  you  might  sell.  Sure  they’d  help  to 
buy  duds  of  does  for  you;  or  you  might  make 
presents  of  the  crathurs  to  the  blessed  an’  holy 
collegian  himself.  Wouldn’t  it  be  good  to  have 
him  an  your  side? — He’d  help  to  make  a gintle- 
man  of  you,  any  way.  Faix,  sure  he  does  it  for 
many,  they  say.  An’  whishper — the  breed, . 


442 


IRELAND 


avourneen,  is  good;  an’  I’m  not  afeard  to  say  that 
there  never  was  sich  a chicken  in  the  whole  col- 
legian, as  the  ould  cock  himself.  He’s  the 
darlin’  all  out,  an’  can  crow  so  stoutly,  that  it 
bates  the  world.  Sure  his  comb’s  a beauty  to 
look  at,  the  darlin’;  an’  only  it’s  to  yourself,  an’ 
in  regard  of  the  blessed  place  he’s  goin’  to,  I 
wouldn’t  part  wid  him  to  nobody  whatsomever,  at 
all,  good  or  bad.” 

The  most  original  gift  of  all  was  a purse, 
formed  of  a small  bladder,  ingeniously  covered 
with  silk.  It  was  given  to  him  by  his  uncle,  as 
a remembrance  of  him,  in  the  first  place;  and 
secondly,  for  a more  special  purpose. 

“ This  will  sarve  you.  Sir,”  said  his  uncle,  “ an’ 
I’ll  tell  you  how:  if  you  want  to  smuggle  in  a 
sup  of  good  whisky — as  of  coorse  you  will,  plase 
goodness — why  this  houlds  exactly  a pint,  an’  is 
the  very  thing  for  it.  The  sorra  one  among 
them  will  ever  think  of  searchin’  your  purse,  at 
least  for  whisky.  Put  it  in  your  pocket,  Misther 
Dionnisis;  an’  I’d  take  it  as  a great  kindness, 
if  you’d  write  me  a scrape  or  two  of  the  pen, 
mentionin’  what  a good  parish  ’ud  be  worth: 
you’ll  soon  be  able  to  tell  me,  for  I’ve  some 
notion  myself  of  puttin’  Barny  to  the  Latin.” 

Denis  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  honest 
warmth  of  heart  with  which  these  simple  tokens 
of  esteem  were  presented  to  him;  and  young  as 
he  was,  his  knowledge  of  their  habits  and  preju- 
dices prevented  him  from  disappointing  them  by 
a refusal.  He  consequently  accepted  everything 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


44;3 


offered  him,  appropriated  to  himself  whatever 
was  suitable  to  his  wants,  converted  the  remainder 
into  pocket-money;  and,  of  course,  kept  his  con- 
science void  of  offence  towards  them  all;  a state 
of  Christian  virtue  which  his  refusal  of  any  one 
gift  would  have  rendered  difficult. 

On  the  day  before  his  departure,  the  friends 
and  relations  of  the  family  assembled  to  hold 
their  farewell  meeting.  The  same  spirit  which 
marked  all  their  rustic  symposia  presided  in  this ; 
if  we  except  a feeling  of  sorrow  natural  to  his 
family  on  being  separated  from  one  they  loved 
so  affectionately.  Denis,  who  was  never  de- 
ficient in  warmth  of  feeling,  could  not  be  in- 
sensible to  the  love  and  pride  with  which  his 
family  had  always  looked  upon  him.  Ambition, 
as  he  approached  it,  lost  much  of  its  fictitious 
glitter.  A sense  of  sorrow,  if  not  of  remorse, 
for  the  fastidious  and  overbearing  spirit  he  had 
manifested  to  them,  pressed  upon  his  heart. 
Pride,  in  fact,  was  expelled;  nature  resumed  her 
empire  over  him;  he  looked  upon  the  last  two 
months  of  his  life  as  a man  would  be  apt  to  do, 
who  had  been  all  that  time  under  the  dominion 
of  a feverish  dream.  We  do  not  say,  how- 
ever that  either  ambition  or  superstition  was 
thoroughly  expelled  from  his  mind;  for  it  is  hard 
at  all  times  to  root  them  out  of  the  system  of 
man:  but  they  ceased  to  govern  him  altogether. 
A passion,  too,  as  obstinate  as  either  of  them, 
was  determined  to  dispute  their  power.  The 
domestic  affections  softened  his  heart;  but  love. 


444 


IRELAND 


which  ambition  left  for  dead,  was  only  stunned; 
it  rose  again,  and  finding  a favourable  position, 
set  its  seal  to  his  feelings. 

Denis  himself,  some  days  before  that  appointed 
for  his  departure,  became  perfectly  conscious 
that  his  affections  were  strongly  fixed  upon 
Susan  Connor.  The  nature  of  their  last  inter- 
view filled  him  with  shame;  nay  more,  it  in- 
spired him  with  pity  for  the  fair  artless  girl 
whom  he  had  so  unfeelingly  insulted.  The 
manner  in  which  he  had  won  her  young  affec- 
tions ; the  many  tender  interviews  that  had  passed 
between  them;  the  sacred  promises  of  unchange- 
able love  they  had  made  to  each  other,  all 
crowded  to  his  imagination  with  a power  which 
reduced  his  spiritual  ambition  and  ecclesiastical 
pride,  at  least  to  the  possession  only  of  a divided 
empire.  He  had,  therefore,  with  his  book  in  his 
hand  as  usual,  taken  many  solitary  walks  for 
the  preceding  few  days,  with  the  expectation  of 
meeting  Susan.  He  heard  that  for  the  last 
month  or  six  weeks,  she  had  looked  ill,  been  in 
low  spirits,  and  lost  her  health.  The  cause  of 
this  change,  though  a secret  to  the  world,  was 
known  to  him.  He  knew,  indeed,  that  an  inter- 
view between  them  was  indispensable;  but  had 
it  not  been  so,  we  question  whether  he  would 
have  been  able  to  leave  home  without  seeing 
her. 

His  evening  strolls,  however,  up  until  the  day 
before  his  setting  out  for  college,  were  fruitless. 
Susan,  who  heretofore  had  been  in  the  habit  of 
walking  in  the  evenings  among  the  green  dells 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


445 


around  her  father’s  house,  was  ever  since  their 
last  meeting  almost  invisible.  In  the  mean  time, 
as  the  day  before  that  of  his  leaving  the  neigh- 
bourhood had  arrived,  and  as  an  interview  with 
her  was,  in  a religious  point  of  view,  essentially 
necessary,  he  took  his  book  in  the  course  of  the 
evening,  and  by  a path  slightly  circuitous,  de- 
scended the  valley  that  ran  between  his  father’s 
house  and  hers.  With  solemn  strides  he  per- 
ambulated it  in  every  direction — north,  south, 
east,  and  west;  not  a natural  bower  in  the  glen 
was  unexplored;  not  a green  quiet  nook  un- 
searched; not  a shady  tree  unexamined;  but  all 
to  no  purpose.  Yet,  although  he  failed  in  meet- 
ing herself,  a thousand  objects  brought  her  to 
to  his  heart.  Every  dell,  natural  bower,  and 
shady  tree,  presented  him  with  a history  of  their 
past  affections.  Here  was  the  spot  where,  with 
beating  heart  and  crimson  cheek,  she  had  first 
breathed  out  in  broken  music  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  her  love;  there  had  another  stolen  meet- 
ing, a thousand  times  the  sweeter  for  being 
stolen,  taken  place.  Every  spot,  in  fact,  was 
dear  to  him,  and  every  object  associated  itself 
with  delightful  emotions  that  kindled  new  life 
in  a spirit  from  which  their  parent  affections  had 
not  yet  passed  away. 

Denis  now  sought  the  only  other  place  where 
he  had  any  likelihood  of  meeting  her:  this  was 
at  the  well  below  her  father’s  house.  He  walked 
down  along  the  banks  of  the  little  stream  that 
ran  past  it,  until  he  reached  a thorn  bush  that 
grew  within  a few  yards  of  the  spring.  Under 


446 


IRELAND 


this  he  sat,  anxiously  hoping  that  Susan  might 
come  to  fill  her  evening  pail,  as  he  knew  she  was 
wont  to  do.  A thick  flowery  branch  of  the  haw- 
thorn, for  it  was  the  latter  end  of  May,  hung 
down  from  the  trunk,  and  served  as  a screen 
through  which  he  could  observe  her  should  she 
appear,  without  being  visible  himself. 

It  was  now  the  hour  of  twilight;  the  evening 
was  warm  and  balmy ; the  whitethorn  under 
which  he  sat,  and  the  profusion  of  wild-flowers 
that  spangled  the  bosom  of  the  green  glen, 
breathed  their  fragrance  around  him,  and  steeped 
the  emotions  and  remembrances  which  crowded 
thickly  on  him  in  deep  and  exquisite  tenderness. 
Up  in  the  air  he  heard  the  quavering  hum  of  the 
snipe,  as  it  rose  and  fell  in  undulating  motion, 
and  the  creak  of  the  rail  in  many  directions 
around  him.  From  an  adjoining  meadow  in  the 
distance,  the  merry  voices  of  the  village  children 
came  upon  his  ear,  as  they  gathered  the  wild 
honey  which  dropped  like  dew  from  the  soft 
clouds  upon  the  long  grassy  stalks,  and  meadow- 
sweet, on  whose  leaves  it  lay  like  amber.  He  re- 
membered when  he  and  Susan,  on  meeting  there 
for  a similar  purpose,  felt  the  first  mysterious 
pleasure  in  being  together,  and  the  unaccount- 
able melancholy  produced  by  separation  and  ab- 
sence. 

At  length  he  heard  a footstep;  but  he  could 
not  persuade  himself  that  the  slow  and  lingering 
tread  of  the  person  approaching  him  was  that  of 
Susan,  so  much  did  it  differ  from  the  buoyant 
and  elastic  step  with  which  she  used  to  trip  along. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


447 


On  looking*  through  the  branches,  however,  he 
perceived  her  coming  towards  him,  carrying  the 
pitcher  as  usual  in  her  hand.  The  blood  was  al- 
ready careering  at  full  speed  through  his  veins, 
and  the  palpitations  of  his  heart  were  loud 
enough  to  be  heard  by  the  ear. 

Oh,  beautj",  beauty!  teterrima  causa  belli,  thou 
dost  play  the  devil  with  the  hearts  of  men  1 Who 
is  there  who  doth  not  wish  to  look  upon  thee, 
from  the  saint  to  the  sinner? — None.  For  thee 
worlds  have  been  lost;  nations  swept  off  the 
earth ; thrones  overturned ; and  cities  laid  in  ashes  1 
Adam,  David,  Marc  Antony,  Abelard,  and  Denis 
O’Shaughnessy,  exliibit  histories  of  thy  power 
never  to  be  forgotten,  but  the  greatest  of  these 
is  Denis  O’Shaughnessy. 

Susan  was  about  the  middle  size;  her  tresses, 
like  those  of  the  daughters  of  her  country,  were 
a fair  brown,  and  abundant.  Her  features  were 
not  such,  we  admit,  as  mark  regular  and  scien- 
tific perfection,  and  perhaps  much  of  their  power 
was  owing  to  their  not  being  altogether  sym- 
metrical. Her  great  charm  consisted  in  a spirit 
of  3^outhful  innocence  so  guileless,  that  the  very 
light  of  purity  and  truth  seemed  to  break  in  ra- 
diance from  her  countenance.  Her  form  was 
round,  light,  and  flexible.  When  she  smiled, 
her  face  seemed  to  lose  the  character  of  its  mor- 
tality— so  seraphic  and  full  of  an  indescribable 
spell  were  its  lineaments;  that  is,  the  spell  was 
felt  by  its  thrilling  influence  upon  the  beholder, 
rather  than  by  any  extraordinary  perception  of 
her  external  beauty.  The  general  expression  of 


448 


IRELAND 


her  countenance,  however,  was  that  of  mel- 
ancholy. No  person  could  look  upon  her  white 
forehead  and  dark  flashing  eyes,  without  per- 
ceiving that  she  was  full  of  tenderness  and  en- 
thusiasm; but  let  the  light  of  cheerfulness  fall 
upon  her  face,  and  you  wished  never  to  see  it 
beam  with  any  other  spirit.  In  her  met  those 
extremes  of  character  peculiar  to  her  country. 
Her  laughing  lips  expanded  with  the  playful 
delicacy  of  mirth,  or  breathed  forth,  with  un- 
taught melody  and  deep  pathos,  her  national 
songs  of  sorrow. 

A little  before  she  made  her  appearance,  the 
moon  had  risen  and  softened  with  her  dewy  light 
the  calm  secluded  scene  around  them.  Denis,  too, 
had  an  opportunity  of  seeing  the  lovely  girl  more 
distinctly.  Her  dress  was  simple  but  becoming. 
Her  hair,  except  the  side  ringlets  that  fell  to 
heighten  the  beauty  of  her  neck,  was  bound  up 
with  a comb  which  Denis  himself  had  presented 
to  her.  She  wore  a white  dimity  bedgown,  that 
sat  close  to  her  well-formed  person,  descended 
below  her  knee,  and  opened  before;  the  sleeves  of 
it  did  not  reach  the  elbow,  but  displayed  an  arm 
that  could  not  be  surpassed  for  whiteness  and 
beauty.  The  bedgown  was  frilled  about  the 
shoulder,  which  it  covered,  leaving  the  neck  only, 
and  the  upper  part  of  her  snowy  bosom,  visible. 
A dark  ribbon,  tied  about  her  waist,  threw  her 
figure  into  exquisite  outline,  and  gave  her  that 
simple  elegance  which  at  once  bespeaks  the  har- 
mony of  due  proportion. 

On  reaching  the  well  she  filled  her  vessel,  and 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


449 


placed  it  on  a small  mound  beside  her;  then  sit- 
ting down,  she  mused  for  some  time,  and  turning 
her  eyes  towards  Denis’s  father’s,  sighed  deeply. 

“ It’s  the  least,”  said  the  humbled  girl,  “ that 
I may  look  towards  the  house  that  the  only  one  I 
ever  loved,  or  ever  will  love,  lives  in.  Little  I 
thought  when  I loved  him  that  I was  standin’  be- 
tween him  an’  God.  Loved  him!  I wish  I 
could  say  it  was  past,  I wish  I could;  for  I am 
afeard  that  till  my  weak  heart  breaks  it  will  love 
him  still.  God  pity  me!  It  would  be  well  for 
me  I had  never  seen  him!  But  why  he  should 
go  to  Maynooth  without  givin’  me  back  my 
promise,  I cannot  tell.” 

Denis  rose  and  approached  her.  Susan,  on 
seeing  him,  started,  and  her  lover  could  perceive 
that  she  hastily  wiped  the  tears  from  her  eyes. 
A single  glance,  however,  convinced  her  that  it 
was  he;  and  such  was  the  guileless  simplicity  of 
her  heart,  joined  to  the  force  of  habit,  that  her 
face  beamed  with  one  of  her  wonted  smiles  at  his 
appearance.  This  soon  passed  away,  and  her 
features  again  resumed  an  expression  of  deep 
melancholy. 

Our  hero  now  forgot  his  learning;  his  poly- 
syllables were  laid  aside,  and  his  pedantry  ut- 
terly abandoned.  His  pride,  too,  was  gone,  and 
the  petty  pomp  of  artificial  character  flung  aside 
like  an  unnecessary  garment  which  only  op- 
presses the  wearer. 

“ Susan,”  said  he,  “ I am  sorry  to  see  you  look 
so  pale  and  unhappy.  I deeply  regret  it;  and  I 
could  not  permit  this  day  to  pass,  without  seeing 

III— 29 


450 


IRELAND 


and  speaking  to  you.  If  I go  to-morrow,  Susan, 
may  I now  ask  in  what  light  will  you  remember 
me?” 

“I’ll  remember  you  without  anger,  Denis; 
with  sorrow  will  I remember  you,  but  not,  as  I 
said,  in  anger;  though  God  knows,  and  you 
know,  the  only  token  you  lave  me  to  remember 
you  by  is  a broken  heart.” 

“ Susan,”  said  Denis,  “ it  was  an  unhappy  at- 
tachment, as  circumstances  have  turned  out;  and 
I wish  for  both  our  sakes  we  had  never  loved  one 
another.  F or  some  time  past  my  heart  has  been 
torn  diff erent  ways,  and,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I 
acknowledge  that  within  the  last  three  or  four 
months  I have  been  little  less  than  a villain  to 
you.” 

“You  speak  harshly  of  yourself,  Denis;  I 
hope,  more  so  than  you  deserve.” 

“ No,  Susy.  With  my  heart  fixed  upon  other 
hopes,  I continued  to  draw  your  affections  closer 
and  closer  to  me.” 

“ Well,  that  was  wrong,  Denis;  but  you  loved 
me  long  before  that  time,  an’  it’s  not  so  asy  a 
thing  to  draw  away  the  heart  from  what  we  love; 
that  is,  to  draw  it  away  for  ever,  Denis,  even  al- 
though greater  things  may  rise  up  before  us.” 

As  she  pronounced  the  last  words,  her  voice, 
which  she  evidently  strove  to  keep  firm,  became 
unsteady. 

“ That’s  true,  Susan,  I know  it;  but  I will 
never  forgive  myself  for  acting  a double  part  to 
you  and  to  the  world.  There  is  not  a pang  you 
suffer  but  ought  to  fall  as  a curse  upon  my  head, 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


451 


for  leading  you  into  greater  confidence,  at  a time 
when  I was  not  seriously  resolved  to  fulfil  my 
vows  to  you.” 

“ Denis,”  said  the  unsuspecting  girl,  “ you’re 
imposin’  on  yourself — you  never  could  do  so  bad, 
so  treacherous  an  act  as  that.  No,  you  never 
could,  Denis;  an’,  above  all  the  world,  to  a heart 
that  loved  and  trusted  you  as  mine  did.  I won’t 
believe  it,  even  from  your  own  lips.  You  surely 
loved  me,  Denis,  and  in  that  case  you  couldnt 
be  desateful  to  me.” 

“ I did  love  you;  but  I never  loved  you  half 
so  w ell  as  I ought,  Susy ; and  I never  was  worthy 
of  you.  Susy,  I tell  you — I tell  you — my  heart 
is  breaking  for  your  sake.  It  would  have  been 
well  for  both  of  us  we  had  never  seen,  or  known, 
or  loved  each  other ; for  I know  by  my  own  heart 
what  you  must  suffer.” 

“Denis,  don’t  be  cast  down  on  my  account; 
before  I ever  thought  of  you,  when  I was  runnin’^ 
about  the  glens  here,  a lonely  little  orphan,  I was 
often  sorry,  without  knowin’  why.  Sometimes  I 
used  to  wonder  at  it,  and  search  my  mind  to 
find  out  what  occasioned  it:  but  I never  could. 
I suppose  it  was  because  I saw  other  girls, 
like  myself,  havin’  their  little  brothers  an’ 
sisters  to  play  Muth ; or  because  I had  no  mother’s 
voice  to  call  me  night  or  mornin’,  or  her  bosom 
to  lay  my  head  on,  if  I was  sick  or  tired.  I sup- 
pose it  was  this.  Many  a time,  Denis,  even  then, 
I knew  what  sorrow  was,  and  I often  thought 
that,  come  what  would  to  others,  there  was  sor- 
row before  me.  I now  find  I was  right;  but  for 


452 


IRELAND 


all  that,  Denis,  it’s  betther  that  we  should  give 
up  one  another  in  time,  than  be  unhappy  by  my 
bein’  the  means  of  turnin’  you  from  the  ways 
and  duties  of  God.” 

The  simple  and  touching  picture  which  she 
drew  of  her  orphan  childhood,  together  with  the 
tone  of  resignation  and  sorrow  which  ran  through 
all  she  said,  affected  Denis  deeply. 

“ Susan,”  he  replied,  “ I am  much  changed  of 
late.  The  prospect  before  me  is  a dark  one — a 
mysterious  one.  It  is  not  many  months  since  my 
head  was  dizzy  with  the  gloomy  splendour  which 
the  pomps  and  ceremonies  of  the  Church — soon, 
I trust,  to  be  restored  in  this  country  to  all  her 
pride  and  power — presented  to  my  imagination. 
But  I have  mingled  with  those  on  whom  before 
this — that  is,  during  my  boyhood — I looked  with 
awe,  as  on  men  who  held  vested  in  themselves 
some  mysterious  and  spiritual  power.  I have 
mingled  with  them,  Susan,  and  I find  them 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  those  who  still  look 
upon  them  as  I once  did.” 

“ Well,  but,  Denis,  how  does  that  bear  upon 
your  views?  ” 

“ It  does,  Susan.  I said  I have  found  them 
neither  better  nor  worse  than  their  fellow-crea- 
tures; but  I believe  they  are  not  so  happy.  I 
think  I could  perceive  a gloom,  even  in  their 
mirth,  that  told  of  some  particular  thought  or 
care  that  haunted  them  like  a spirit.  Some  of 
them,  and  not  a few,  in  the  moments  of  undis- 
guised feeling,  dissuaded  me  against  ever  enter- 
ing the  Church.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


453 


“ I am  sure  they’re  happy,”  said  Susan. 
“ Some  time  ago,  accordin’  to  your  own  words, 
you  thought  the  same ; but  something  has  turned 
your  heart  from  the  good  it  was  fixed  upon. 
You’re  in  a dangerous  time,  Denis;  and  it’s  not 
to  be  wondhered  at,  if  the  temptations  of  the 
devil  should  thry  you  now,  in  hopes  to  turn  you 
from  the  service  of  God.  This  is  a warnin’  to 
me,  too,  Denis.  May  Heaven  above  forbid  that 
I should  be  made  the  means  of  temptin’  you 
from  the  duty  that’s  before  you!  ” 

“No,  Susan  dear,  it’s  not  temptation,  but  the 
fear  of  temptation,  that  prevails  with  me.” 

“ But,  Denis,  surely  if  you  think  yourself  not 
worthy  to  enther  that  blessed  state,  you  have 
time  enough  to  avoid  it.” 

“ Ay,  but,  Susy,  there  is  the  difficulty.  I am 
now  so  placed  that  I can  hardly  go  back.  First, 
the  disgrace  of  refusing  to  enter  the  Church 
would  lie  upon  me  as  if  I had  committed  a crime. 
Again,  I would  break  my  father’s  and  my  moth- 
er’s heart:  and  rather  than  do  that,  I could 
almost  submit  to  be  miserable  for  life.  And 
finally,  I could  not  live  in  the  family,  nor  bear 
the  indignation  of  my  brothers  and  other  rela- 
tions. You  know,  Susan,  as  well  as  I do,  the 
character  attached  to  those  who  put  their  friends 
to  the  expense  of  educating  them  for  the  Church, 
who  raise  their  hopes  and  their  ambition,  and 
afterwards  disappoint  them.” 

“ I know  it.” 

“ This,  Susan,  dear,  prevails  with  me.  Be- 
sides, the  Church  now  is  likely  to  rise  from  her 


454 


IRELAND 


ruins.  I believe  that  if  a priest  did  his  duty,  he 
might  possibly  possess  miraculous  power.  There 
is  great  pomp  and  splendour  in  her  ceremonies, 
a sense  of  high  and  boundless  authority  in  her 
pastors ; there  is  rank  in  her  orders  sufficient  even 
for  ambition.  Then  the  deference,  the  awe,  and 
the  humility  with  which  they  are  approached  by 
the  people — ah!  Susan,  there  is  much  still  in  the 
character  of  a priest  for  the  human  heart  to  covet. 
The  power  of  saying  mass,  of  forgiving  sin,  of 
relieving  the  departed  spirits  of  the  faithful  in 
another  world,  and  of  mingling  in  our  holy  sacri- 
fices with  the  glorious  worship  of  the  cherubims, 
or  angels,  in  heaven — all  this  is  the  privilege  of  a 
priest,  and  what  earthly  rank  can  be  compared 
to  it?  ” 

“ None  at  all,  Denis — none  at  all.  Oh,  think 
this  way  still,  and  let  no  earthly  temptation — no 
— don’t  let — even  me — ^what  am  I? — a poor 
humble  girl — oh!  no,  let  nothing  keep  you  back 
from  this.” 

The  tears  burst  from  her  eyes,  however,  as  she 
spoke. 

“ But,  Denis,”  she  added,  there  is  one  thing 
that  turns  my  brain.  I fear  that,  even  afther 
your  ordination,  I couldn’t  look  upon  you  as  I 
would  upon  another  man.  Oh,  my  heart  would 
break  if  one  improper  thought  of  it  was  fixed 
upon  you  then/'' 

‘‘  Susy,  hear  me.  I could  give  up  all,  but  you. 
I could  bear  to  disappoint  father,  mother,  and 
all;  but  the  thought  of  giving  you  up  for  ever  is 
terrible.  I have  been  latterly  in  a kind  of  dream. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


4.55 


I have  been  among  friends  and  relatives  until 
my  brain  was  turned;  but  now  I am  restored  to 
myself,  and  I find  I cannot  part  with  you.  I 
would  gladly  do  it;  but  I cannot.  Oh,  no,  Susan, 
dear,  my  love  for  you  was  dimmed  by  other  pas- 
sions; but  it  was  not  extinguisbed.  It  now 
burns  stronger  and  purer  in  my  heart  than  ever. 
It  does — it  does.  And,  Susan,  I always  loved 
you.” 

Susan  paused  for  some  time,  and  unconsciously 
plucked  a wild  flower  which  grew  beside  her : she 
surveyed  it  a moment,  and  exclaimed: — 

“Do  you  see  this  flower,  Denis?  it’s  a faded 
primrose.  I’m  like  that  flower  in  one  sense;  Fm 
faded;  my  heart’s  broke.” 

“ No,  my  beloved  Susan,  don’t  say  so;  you’re 
only  low-spirited.  Why  should  your  heart  be 
broke,  and  you  in  the  very  bloom  of  youth  and 
beauty?  ” 

“Do  you  remember  our  last  meetin’,  Denis? 
Oh,  how  could  you  be  so  cruel  then  as  to  bid  me 
think  of  marryin’  another,  as  if  I had  loved  you 
for  anything  but  yourself?  I’m  but  a simple 
girl,  Denis,  and  know  but  little  of  the  world ; but 
if  I was  to  live  a thousand  years,  you  would  al- 
ways see  the  sorrow  that  your  words  made  me 
feel  visible  upon  my  countenance.  I’m  not 
angiy  with  you,  Denis;  but  I’m  telling  you  the 
truth.” 

“ Susan,  my  darling,  this  is  either  weakness  of 
mind  or  ill  health.  I will  see  you  as  beautiful 
and  happy  as  ever.  For  my  part,  I now  tell 
you,  that  no  power  on  earth  can  separate  us! 


456 


IRELAND 


Yes,  my  beloved  Susan,  I will  see  you  as  happy 
and  happier  than  I have  ever  seen  you.  That 
will  be  when  you  are  my  own  young  and  guile- 
less wife.” 

“Ah,  no,  Denis!  My  mind  is  made  up:  I 
can  never  be  your  wife.  Do  you  think  that  I 
would  bring  the  anger  of  God  upon  myself,  by 
temptin’  you  back  from  the  holy  office  you’re  en- 
tering into?  Think  of  it  yourself,  Denis.  Your 
feelings  are  melted  now  by  our  discoorse,  and, 
maybe,  because  I’m  near  you;  but  when  time 
passes,  you’ll  be  glad  that  in  the  moment  of  weak- 
ness you  didn’t  give  way  to  them.  I know  it’s 
natural  for  you  to  love  me  now.  You’re  lavin’ 
me — you’re  lavin’  the  place  where  I am — the  lit- 
tle river  and  the  glen  where  we  so  often  met,  and 
where  we  often  spent  many  a happy  hour  to- 
gether. That  has  an  effect  upon  you;  for  why 
should  I deny  it? — you  see  it — it  is  hard — very 
hard — even  upon  myself.” 

She  neither  sobbed  nor  cried  so  as  to  be  heard, 
but  the  tears  gushed  down  her  cheeks  in  torrents. 

“ Susan,”  said  Denis,  in  an  unsteady  voice, 
“ you  speak  in  vain.  Every  word  you  say  tells 
me  that  I cannot  live  without  you;  and  I will 
not.” 

“ Don’t  say  that,  Denis.  Suppose  we  should 
be  married,  think  of  what  I would  suffer  if  I 
saw  you  in  poverty  or  distress,  brought  on  be- 
cause you  married  me!  Why,  my  heart  would 
sink  entirely  under  it.  Then  your  friends  would 
never  give  me  a warm  heart.  Me!  they  would 
never  give  yourself  a warm  heart;  and  I would 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


457 


rather  be  dead  than  see  you  brought  to  shame, 
or  ill-treatment,  or  poverty,  on  my  account. 
Pray  to  God,  Denis,  to  grant  you  grace  to  over- 
come whatever  you  feel  for  me.  I have  prayed 
both  for  you  and  myself.  Oh,  pray  to  him, 
Denis,  sincerely,  that  he  may  enable  you  to  for- 
get that  such  a girl — such  an  unhappy  girl — as 
Susan  Connor  ever  lived!  ” 

Poor  Denis  was  so  much  overcome  that  he 
could  not  restrain  his  tears.  He  gazed  upon  the 
melancholy  countenance  of  the  fair  girl,  in  a de- 
lirium of  love  and  admiration;  but  in  a few  min- 
utes he  replied: — 

“ Susan,  your  words  are  lost:  I am  deter- 
mined. Oh  1 great  heavens,  what  a treasure  was 
I near  losing!  Susan,  hear  me:  I will  bear  all 
that  this  world  can  inflict;  I will  bear  shame,  ill- 
treatment,  anger,  scorn,  and  every  harsh  word 
that  may  be  uttered  against  me ; I will  renounce 
church,  spiritual  power,  rank,  honour;  I will  give 
up  father  and  family — all — all  that  this  world 
could  flatter  me  with:  yes,  I will  renounce  each 
and  all  for  your  sake!  Do  not  dissuade  me;  my 
mind  is  fixed,  and  no  power  on  earth  can  change 
it.” 

“Yes,  Denis,”  she  replied  calmly,  “ there  is  a 
power,  and  a weak  power,  too,  that  will  change 
it ; for  I will  change  it.  Don’t  think,  Denis,  that 
in  arguin’  with  you,  against  the  feelin’s  of  my 
own  heart,  I am  doin’  it  without  sufferin’.  Oh, 
no,  indeed!  You  know,  Denis,  I am  a lonely 
girl;  that  I have  neither  brother,  nor  sister,  nor 
mother  to  direct  me.  Sufferin’! — Oh,  I wish 


458 


IRELAND 


you  knew  it!  Denis,  you  must  forget  me.  I’m 
hopeless  now:  my  heart,  as  I said,  is  broke,  and 
I’m  strivin’  to  fix  it  upon  a happier  world!  Oh! 
if  I had  a mother  or  a sister,  that  I could,  when 
my  breast  is  likely  to  burst,  throw  myself  in  their 
arms,  and  cry  and  confess  all  I feel!  But  I’m 
alone,  and  must  bear  all  my  own  sorrows.  Oh, 
Denis ! I’m  not  without  knowin’  how  hard  the  task 
is  that  I have  set  to  myself.  Is  it  nothing  to 
give  up  all  that  the  heart  is  fixed  upon?  Is  it 
nothing  to  walk  about  this  glen,  and  the  green 
fields,  to  have  one’s  eyes  upon  them,  and  to  re- 
member what  happiness  one  has  had  in  them, 
knowin’,  at  the  same  time,  that  it’s  all  blasted? 
Oh,  is  it  nothing  to  look  upon  the  green  earth 
itself,  and  all  its  beauty — to  hear  the  happy  songs 
and  the  joyful  voices  of  all  that  are  about  us — 
the  birds  singing  sweetly,  the  music  of  the  river 
flowin’ — to  see  the  sun  shinin’,  and  to  hear  the 
rustlin’  of  the  trees  in  the  warm  winds  of  sum- 
mer— to  see  and  hear  all  this,  and  to  feel  that  a 
young  heart  is  brakin’,  or  already  broken  within 
us — that  we  are  goin’  to  lave  it  all — all  we  loved 
— and  to  go  down  into  the  clay  under  us?  Oh, 
Denis,  this  is  hard; — bitter  is  it  to  me,  I confess 
it;  for  sometliing  tells  me  it  will  be  my  fate 
soon!  ” 

But,  Susan” 

“ Hear  me  out.  I have  now  repated  what  I 
know  I must  suffer — what  I know  I must  lose. 
This  is  my  lot,  and  I must  bear  it.  Now,  Denis, 
will  you  grant  your  own  Susan  one  request?  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


459 


“ If  it  was  that  my  life  should  save  yours,  I 
would  grant  it.” 

“ It’s  the  last  and  only  one  I will  ever  ask  of 
you.  My  health  has  been  ill,  Denis ; my  strength 
is  gone,  and  I feel  I am  gettin’  worse  every  day : 
now  when  you  hear  that  I am — that  I am — gone, 
— will  you  olFer  up  the  first  mass  you  say  for  my 
pace  and  rest  in  another  world?  I say  the  first, 
for  you  know  there’s  more  virtue  in  a first  mass 
than  in  any  other.  Your  Susan  will  be  then  in 
the  dust,  and  you  may  feel  sorrow,  but  not  love 
for  her.” 

“Never,  Susan!  For  God’s  sake,  forbear! 
You  will  drive  me  distracted.  As  I hope  to  meet 
judgment,  I think  I never  loved  you  till  now; 
and  by  the  same  oath,  I will  not  change  my  pur- 
pose in  making  you  mine.” 

“ Then  you  do  love  me  still,  Denis?  And  you 
would  give  up  all  for  your  Susan?  Answer  me 
truly,  for  the  ear  of  God  is  open  to  our  words 
and  thoughts.” 

“ Then,  before  God,  I love  you  too  strongly 
for  words  to  express ; and  I would  and  will  give 
up  all  for  your  sake!  ” 

Susan  turned  her  eyes  upon  vacancy;  and 
Denis  observed  that  a sudden  and  wild  light 
broke  from  them,  which  alarmed  him  exceed- 
ingly. She  put  her  open  hand  upon  her  fore- 
head, as  if  she  felt  pain,  and  remained  glancing 
fearfully  around  her  for  a few  minutes;  her 
countenance,  which  became  instantly  like  a sheet 
of  paper,  lost  all  its  intelligence,  except,  perhaps, 


460 


IRELAND 


what  might  be  gleaned  from  a smile  of  the  most 
ghastly  and  desolating  misery. 

“ Gracious  heaven ! Susan,  dear,  what’s  the 
matter?  Oh,  my  God!  your  face  is  like  marble! 
Dearest  Susan,  speak  to  me! — Oh,  speak  to  me, 
or  I will  go  distracted!  ” 

She  looked  upon  him  long  and  steadily ; but  he 
perceived  with  delight  that  her  consciousness  was 
gradually  returning.  At  length  she  drew  a deep 
sigh,  and  requested  him  to  hsten. 

“ Denis,”  said  she,  “ you  must  now  be  a man. 
We  can  never  be  married.  I am  promised  to 
another!  ” 

“ Promised  to  another!  Your  brain  is  turned, 
Susy.  Collect  yourself,  dearest,  and  think  of 
what  you  say.” 

“ I know  what  I say — I know  it  too  well! 
What  did  I say?  Why — why,”  she  added,  with 
an  unsettled  look,  “ that  I’m  promised  to  another! 
It  is  true — true  as  God’s  in  heaven.  Oh,  Denis ! 
why  did  you  lave  me  so  long  without  seein’  me? 
I said  my  heart  was  broke,  and  you  will  soon 
know  that  it  has  bitter,  bitter  rason  to  be  so.  See 
here.” 

She  had,  during  her  reply,  taken  from  her 
bosom  a small  piece  of  brown  cloth,  of  a square 
shape,  marked  witK  the  letters  I.  M.  I.  the  initials 
of  the  names  of  Jesus  Mary,  and  Joseph.  She 
kissed  it  fervently  as  she  spoke,  and  desired  Denis 
to  look  upon  it  and  hear  her. 

“ When  you  saw  me  last,”  she  continued,  “ I 
left  you  in  anger,  because  I thought  you  no 
longer  loved  me.  Many  a scaldin’  tear  I shed 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


461 


that  nobody  witnessed ; many  a wringin’  my  heart 
felt  since  that  time.  I got  low,  and,  as  I said, 
my  health  left  me.  I began  to  think  of  what  I 
ought  to  do;  and  bein’  so  much  alone,  my 
thoughts  were  never  off  it.  At  last  I remem- 
bered the  Virgin  Mother  of  God,  as  bein’  once  a 
woman,  and  the  likelier  to  pity  one  of  her  own 
kind  in  sorrow.  I then  thought  of  a scapular; 
and  made  a promise  to  myself,  that  if  you  didn’t 
come  within  a certain  time,  I would  dedicate  my- 
self to  her  for  ever.  I saw  that  you  neglected 
me,  and  I heard  so  much  of  the  way  you  spent 
your  time,  how  you  were  pleasant  and  merry 
while  my  heart  was  brealdn’,  that  I made  a vow 
to  remain  a spotless  virgin  all  my  life.  I got  a 
scapular,  too,  that  I might  be  strengthened  to 
keep  my  holy  promise;  for  you  didn’t  come  to 
me  within  the  time.  This  is  it  in  my  hand.  It 
is  now  on  me.  The  vow  is  madf.,  and  I am 

MISERABLE  FOR  EVER!  ” 

Denis  sobbed  and  wrung  his  hands,  whilst 
tears,  intensely  bitter,  fell  from  his  eyes. 

“ Oh,  Susan!  ” he  exclaimed,  ‘‘  what  have  you 
done?  Miserable!  Oh,  you  have  ruined  me  ut- 
terly! You  have  rendered  us  both  for  ever 
miserable!  ” 

“Miserable!”  she  exclaimed,  with  flashing 
eyes.  “ Who  talks  of  misery?  ” But  again  she 
put  her  hand  to  her  forehead,  and  endeavoured 
to  recollect  herself.  “ Denis,”  she  added, 
“Denis,  my  brain  is  turning!  Oh,  I have  no 
friend ! Oh,  mother,  that  I never  seen,  but  as  if 
it  was  in  a dream;  mother,  daughter  of  your 


462 


IRELAND 


daughter's  hearty  look  down  from  heaven,  and 
pity  your  orphan  child  in  her  sore  trouble  and  af- 
fliction! Oh,  how  often  did  I miss  you,  mother 
darlin’,  durin’  all  my  life!  In  sickness  I had 
not  your  tendher  hands  about  me;  in  sorrow  I 
could  not  hear  your  voice;  and  in  joy  and  happi- 
ness you  were  never  with  me  to  share  them!  I 
had  not  your  advice,  my  blessed  mother,  to  guide 
and  direct  me,  to  tache  me  what  was  right,  and 
what  was  wrong!  Oh,  if  you  will  not  hear  your 
own  poor  lonely  orphan,  who  will  you  hear?  if 
you  will  not  assist  her,  who  ought  you  to  assist? 
for,  as  sure  as  I stand  here  this  night,  you  are  a 
blessed  saint  in  heaven.  But  let  me  not  forget 
the  Virgin  Queen  of  Heaven,  that  I am  bound 
to.  I kneel  to  you,  Hope  of  the  Afflicted!  To 
you  let  them  go  that  have  a broken  heart,  as  I 
have!  Queen  of  Glory,  pity  me! — Star  of  the 
Sea — Comfort  of  the  Hopeless — Refuge  of  Sin- 
ners, hear  me,  strengthen,  and  support  me ! And 
you  will  too.  Who  did  you  ever  cast  away,  mild 
and  beautiful  Virgin  of  Heaven?  ‘As  the  lily 
among  thorns,  so  are  you  among  the  daughters 
of  Adam!  ’ Yes,  Denis,  she  will  support  me — 
she  will  support  me!  I feel  her  power  on  me 
now!  I see  the  angels  of  heaven  about  her,  and 
her  mild  countenance  smilin’  sweetly  upon  the 
broken  flower!  Yes,  Denis,  her  glory  is  upon 
me!” 

The  last  words  were  uttered  with  her  eyes 
flashing  wildly  as  before,  and  her  whole  person 
and  countenance  evidently  under  the  influence  of 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


463 


a highly  excited  enthusiasm,  or  perhaps  a touch 
of  momentary  insanity. 

Poor  Denis  stood  with  streaming  eyes,  incapa- 
ble of  checking  or  interrupting  her.  He  had 
always  knowm  that  her  education  and  under- 
standing were  above  the  common;  but  he  never 
anticipated  from  her  such  capacity  for  deep  feel- 
ing, united  to  so  much  vivacity  of  imagination 
as  she  then  displayed.  Perhaps  he  had  not  phi- 
losophy enough,  at  that  period  of  his  youth,  to 
understand  the  effects  of  a solitary  life  upon  a 
creature  full  of  imagination  and  sensibility.  The 
scenery  about  her  father’s  house  was  wild,  and 
the  glens  singularly  beautiful;  Susan  lived 
among  them  alone,  so  that  she  became  in  a man- 
ner enamoured  of  solitude ; which,  probably  more 
than  anything  else,  gives  tenderness  to  feeling, 
and  force  to  the  imaginative  faculties.  Soon 
after  she  had  pronounced  the  last  words,  how- 
ever, her  good  sense  came  to  her  aid. 

“ Denis,”  said  she,  “ you  have  seen  my  weak- 
ness; but  you  must  now  see  my  strength.  You 
know  we  have  a trial  to  go  through  before  we 
part  for  ever.” 

“ Oh!  Susy,  don’t  say  ‘ for  ever.’  You  know 
that  the  vow  you  made  was  a rash  vow.  It  may 
be  set  aside.” 

‘‘  It  was  not  a rash  vow,  Denis.  I made  it 
with  a firm  intention  of  keepin’  it,  and  keep  it  I 
will.  The  Mother  of  God  is  not  to  be  mocked, 
because  I am  weak,  or  choose  to  prefer  my  own 
will  to  hers.” 


464 


IRELAND 


But,  Susy,  the  Church  can  dissolve  it.  You 
know  she  has  power  to  bind  and  to  loose.  Oh, 
for  God’s  sake,  Susy,  if  you  ever  loved  me,  don’t 
attempt  to  take  back  your  promise.” 

“ I love  you  too  well  to  destroy  you,  Denis.  I 
will  never  stand  between  you  and  God,  for  that 
would  be  my  crime.  I will  never  bring  disgrace, 
or  shame,  or  poverty,  upon  you;  for  surely  these 
things  would  fall  upon  you  as  a punishment  for 
desartin’  him.  If  you  were  another — if  you 
weren’t  intended  to  be  the  servant  of  God,  I 
could  beg  with  you — starve  with  you — die  with 
you.  But  when  I am  gone,  remember  that  I 
gave  up  all  my  hopes,  that  you  might  succeed  in 
yours.  I’m  sure  that  is  love.  Now,  Denis,  we 
must  return  our  promises,  the  time  is  passin’,  and 
we’ll  both  be  missed  from  home.” 

“ Susan,  for  the  sake  of  my  happiness  both  in 
this  world  and  in  the  next,  don’t  take  away  all 
hope.  Make  me  not  miserable  and  wretched; 
send  me  not  into  the  church  a hypocrite.  If  you 
do,  I will  charge  you  with  my  guilt ; I will  charge 
you  with  the  crimes  of  a man  who  will  care  but 
little  what  he  does.” 

“You  will  have  friends,  Denis;  pious  men, 
who  will  direct  you,  and  guide  you,  and  wean 
your  heart  from  me  and  the  world.  You  will 
soon  bless  me  for  this.  Denis,”  she  added,  with 
a smile  of  unutterable  misery,  “ my  mind  is  made 
up.  I belong  now  to  the  Virgin  Mother  of  God. 
I never  will  be  so  wicked  as  to  forsake  her  for  a 
mortal.  If  I was  to  marry  you  with  a broken 
vow  upon  me,  I could  not  prosper.  The  curse 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  405 

of  God  and  of  his  Blessed  Mother  would  follow^ 
us  both.” 

Denis  felt  perfectly  aware  of  the  view^  enter- 
tained by  Susan,  respecting  such  a vow  as  she  had 
taken.  To  reason  with  her,  was  only  to  attack  a 
prejudice  which  scorned  reason.  Besides  this,  he 
was  not  himself  altogether  free  from  the  im- 
pression of  its  being  a vow  too  solemn  to  be 
broken  without  the  sanction  of  the  Church. 

“ Let  us  go,”  said  Susan,  “ to  the  same  spot 
where  we  first  promised.  It  was  under  this  tree, 
in  this  month,  last  year.  Let  us  give  it  back 
there.” 

The  hand-promise  in  Ireland  between  the  mar- 
riageable young  of  both  sexes,  is  considered  the 
most  solemn  and  binding  of  all  obligations.  Few 
would  rely  upon  the  word  or  oath  of  any  man 
who  had  been  known  to  break  a hand-promise. 
And,  perhaps,  few  of  the  country  girls  would 
marry  or  countenance  the  addresses  of  a young 
person  knowm  to  have  violated  such  a pledge. 
The  vow  is  a solemn  one,  and,  of  course,  given 
by  mutual  consent ; by  mutual  consent,  also,  must 
it  be  withdrawn,  otherwise  it  is  considered  still 
binding.  Whenever  death  removes  one  of  the 
parties,  without  the  other  having  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  “ giving  it  back,”  the  surviving  party^ 
comes,  and  in  the  presence  of  witnesses,  first 
grasping  the  hand  of  the  deceased,  repeats  the 
form  of  words  usual  in  withdrawing  it.  Some 
of  these  scenes  are  very  toucliing  and  impressive, 
particularly  one  which  the  author  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  witnessing.  It  is  supposed  that  in 
III— 30 


466 


IRELAND 


cases  of  death,  if  the  promise  be  not  thus  dis- 
solved, the  spirit  of  the  departed  returns  and 
haunts  the  survivor  until  it  be  cancelled. 

When  Denis  and  Susan  had  reached  the  haw- 
thorn, they  both  knelt  down.  So  exhausted, 
however,  had  Susan  been  by  the  agitation  of  her 
feelings,  that  Denis  was  under  the  necessity  of 
assisting  her  to  the  place.  He  could  perceive, 
too,  that,  amid  the  workings  of  her  religious  en- 
thusiasm, she  trembled  like  an  aspen  leaf. 

“ Now,”  said  she,  “ you  are  stronger  than  I 
am,  begin  and  repeat  the  words;  I will  repeat 
them  with  you.” 

“ No,”  replied  Denis,  “ I will  never  begin.  I 
will  never  be  the  first  to  seal  both  your  misery 
and  mine.” 

“ I am  scarcely  able,”  said  she;  “ dear  Denis, 
don’t  ask  me  to  do  what  I have  not  strength  for. 
But  it’s  useless,”  she  added;  “ you  will  never  be- 
gin unless  I do.” 

They  then  blessed  themselves  after  the  form 
of  their  church,  and  as  they  extended  their  right 
hands  to  each  other,  the  tears  fell  fast  from  the 
eyes  of  both.  The  words  they  repeated  were  the 
same,  with  the  difference  of  the  name  only. 

“ I,  Susan  Connor,  in  the  presence  of  God,  do 
release  you,  Denis  O’Shaughnessy,  from  your 
promise  of  marriage  to  me,  and  from  all  prom- 
ises of  marriage  that  you  ever  made  me.  I now 
give  you  back  that  promise  of  marriage,  and  all 
promises  of  marriage  you  ever  made  me.  To 
which  I call  God  to  witness.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


467 


Denis  repeated  the  same  words,  substituting 
the  name  of  Susan  Connor. 

The  sobs  of  Susan  were  loud  and  incessant, 
even  before  she  had  concluded  the  words;  their 
eyes  were  fixed  upon  each  other  with  a hopeless 
and  agonising  expression:  but  no  sooner  were 
they  uttered,  than  a strong  hysteric  sense  of  suf- 
focation rose  to  her  throat;  she  panted  rapidly  for 
breath;  Denis  opened  his  arms,  and  she  fell,  or 
rather  threw  herself,  over  in  a swoon  upon  his 
bosom.  To  press  his  lips  to  hers  and  carry  her 
to  the  brink  of  the  well,  was  but  the  work  of  a 
moment.  There  he  laid  her,  and  after  having 
sprinkled  her  face  with  water,  proceeded  to  slap 
the  palms  of  her  hands,  exclaiming, — 

“ Susan,  my  beloved,  will  you  not  hear  me? 
Oh,  look  upon  me,  my  heart’s  dearest  treasure, 
and  teU  me  that  you’re  living.  Gracious  God! 
her  heart  is  broken — she  is  dead!  This — this — 
is  the  severest  blow  of  all!  I have  killed  her!  ” 
She  opened  her  eyes  as  he  spoke,  and  Denis,  in 
stooping  to  assist  her,  weeping  at  the  same  time 
like  a child,  received— a bang  from  a cudgel  that 
made  his  head  ring. 

“ Your  sowl  to  the  divil,  you  lamed  vagabone,” 
said  her  father,  for  it  was  he,  ‘‘  is  this  the  way 
you’re  preparin’  yourself  for  the  church?  Cornin’ 
over  that  innocent  colleen  of  a daughter  o’  mine 
before  you  set  out,”  he  added,  taking  Denis  a 
second  thwack  across  the  shoulders — “ before  you 
set  out  for  Maynewthl!  ” 

“ Why,  you  miserable  vulgarian,”  said  Denis, 


468 


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‘‘  I scorn  you  from  the  head  to  the  heel.  Desist, 
I say,”  for  the  father  was  about  to  lay  in  another 
swinger  upon  his  kidney — ‘‘  desist,  I say,  and 
don’t  approximate,  or  I will  entangle  the  ribs  of 
you!” 

“ My  sowl  to  glory,”  said  the  father,  “ if  ever 
I had  a greater  mind  to  ate  my  dinner,  than  I 
have  to  anoint  you  wid  this  cudgel,  you  black- 
coated  skamer!  ” 

‘‘  Get  out,  you  barbarian,”  replied  Denis,  “ how 
dare  you  talk  about  unction  in  connexion  with  a 
cudgel?  Desist,  I say,  for  I will  retaliate,  if  you 
approximate  an  inch.  Desist,  or  I will  baptise 
you  in  the  well,  as  Philip  did  the  Ethiopian,  with- 
out a sponsor.  No  man  but  a miserable  barba- 
rian would  have  had  the  vulgarity  to  interrupt 
us  in  the  manner  you  did.  Look  at  your  daugh- 
ter’s situation ! ” 

“ The  hussy,”  replied  the  father,  “ it’s  the  sup- 
per she  ought  to  have  ready,  instead  of  coortin’ 

wid  sich  a lamed  vag Heavens  above  me! 

What  ails  my  child?  Susy!  Susy,  alanna  dhas! 
what’s  over  you?  Oh,  I see  how  it  is,”  he  con- 
tined — “ I see  how  it  is!  This  accounts  for  her 
low  spirits  an’  bad  health  for  some  time  past! 
Susy,  rouse  yourself,  avourneen!  Sure  I’m  not 
angry  wid  you ! My  sowl  to  glory,  Denny 
Shaughnessy,  but  you  have  broke  my  child’s 
heart,  I doubt!  ” 

“ Owen,”  said  Denis,  ‘‘  your  indecorous  inter- 
ruption has  stamped  you  with  the  signature  of 
genuine  ignorance  and  vulgarity;  still,  I say,  we 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


469 


must  have  some  conversation  on  that  subject  im- 
mediately. Yes,  I love  your  daughter  a thou- 
sand times  better  than  my  own  life.” 

“ Faith,  I’ll  take  care  that  we’ll  have  discoorse 
about  it,”  replied  the  father.  ‘‘  If  you  have  been 
a villain  to  the  innocent  girl — if  you  have, 
Denny,  why  you’ll  meet  your  God  sooner  than 
you  think.  Mark  my  words.  I have  but  one 
life,  and  I’ll  lose  it  for  her  sake,  if  she  has  come 
to  ill.” 

“ Here,”  said  Denis,  “ let  me  sprinkle  her  face 
with  this  cool  water,  that  we  may  recover  her,  if 
possible.  Your  anger  and  your  outrage,  Owen, 
overcame  the  timid  creature.  Speak  kindly  to 
her,  she  is  recovering.  Thank  God,  she  is  recov- 
ing.” 

“ Susy,  avourneen,”  said  the  father,  “ rouse 
yourself,  ma  colleen;  rouse  yourself,  an’  don’t 
thrimble,  that  way.  The  sorra  one  o’  me’s  angry 
wid  you,  at  all  at  all.” 

“ Oh,  bring  me  home,”  said  the  poor  girL 
“Father  dear,  have  no  bad  opinion  of  me.  I 
done  nothing,  an’  I hope  I never  will  do  any 
thing,  that  would  bring  the  blush  of  shame  to 
your  face.” 

“ That’s  as  true  as  that  God’s  in  heaven,”  ob- 
served Denis.  “ The  angels  in  his  presence  are 
not  purer  than  she  is.” 

“ I take  her  own  word  for  it,”  said  the  father; 
“ a lie,  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge,  never  came 
from  her  lips.” 

“ Let  us  assist  her  home,”  said  Denis.  “ I told 


470 


IRELAND 


you  that  we  must  have  some  serious  conversation 
about  her.  I’ll  take  one  arm,  and  do  you  take 
the  other.” 

“ Do  so,”  said  the  father,  “ an’,  Denny,  as 
you’re  the  youngest  and  the  strongest,  jist  take 
up  that  pitcher  o’  wather  in  your  hand,  an’  carry 
it  to  the  house  above.” 

Denis,  who  was  dressed  in  his  best  black  from 
top  to  toe,  made  a wry  face  or  two  at  this  pro- 
posal. He  was  able,  however,  for  Susan’s  sake, 
to  compromise  his  dignity ; so  looking  about  him, 
to  be  certain  that  there  was  no  other  person  ob- 
serving them,  he  seized  the  pitcher  in  one  hand, 
gave  Susan  his  arm,  and  in  this  unheroic  manner 
assisted  to  conduct  her  home. 

In  about  half  an  hour  or  better  after  this, 
Denis  and  Owen  Connor  proceeded  in  close  and 
earnest  conversation  towards  old  Shaughnessy’s. 
On  entering,  Denis  requested  to  speak  with  his 
father  and  brothers  in  private. 

“ Father,”  said  he,  “ this  night  is  pregnant — 
that  is,  vulgariter,  in  the  family  way — with  my 
fate.” 

“ Throth  it  is,  avick.  Glory  be  to  Goodness ! ” 

“ Here  is  Owen  Connor,  an  honest,  dacent 
neighbour ” 

‘‘  Throth,  he  is  an  honest,  dacent  man,”  said 
the  father,  interrupting  him. 

“ Yes,”  rephed  the  son,  “ I agree  with  you. 
Well,  he  has  a certain  disclosure  or  proposal  to 
make,  which  you  will  be  pleased  to  take  into  your 
most  serious  consideration.  I,  for  my  part,  can- 
not help  being  endowed  with  my  own  gifts,  and  if 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


471 


I happen  to  possess  a magnet  to  attract  feminine 
sensibility,  it  is  to  heaven  I owe  it,  and  not  to  my- 
self.” 

“ It  is,”  said  the  father,  ‘‘  glory  be  to  his 
name!  ” 

“ Don’t  be  alarmed,  or  surprised,  or  angry,  at 
anything  Owen  Connor  may  say  to  you.  I speak 
significantly.  There  are  perplexities  in  all  hu- 
man events,  and  the  cardinal  hinge  of  fate  is  for 
ever  turning.  Now  I must  withdraw;  but  in  the 
mean  time,  I will  be  found  taking  a serenade  be- 
hind the  garden,  if  I am  wanted.” 

“ Brian,”  said  the  father,  “ get  the  bottle;  we 
can’t  on  this  night,  any  way,  talk  to  Owen  Con- 
nor, or  to  anybody  else,  wid  dhry  lips.” 

The  bottle  was  accordingly  got,  and  Owen, 
with  no  very  agreeable  anticipations,  found  him- 
self compelled  to  introduce  a very  hazardous 
topic. 

Denis,  as  he  said,  continued  to  walk  to  and  fro 
behind  the  garden.  He  thought  over  the  inci- 
dents of  the  evening,  but  had  no  hope  that  Owen 
Connor’s  proposal  would  be  accepted.  He  knew 
his  father  and  family  too  well  for  that.  With 
respect  to  Susan’s  vow,  he  felt  certain  that  any 
change  of  opinion  on  her  part  was  equally  im- 
probable. It  was  clear,  then,  that  he  had  no  pre- 
text for  avoiding  Maynooth;  and  as  the  shame, 
affliction,  and  indignation  of  the  family  would, 
he  knew,  be  terrible,  he  resolved  to  conform  him- 
self to  his  circumstances,  trusting  to  absence  for 
that  diminution  of  affection  which  it  often  pro- 
duces. Having  settled  these  points  in  his  mind. 


472 


IRELAND 


he  began  to  grope  that  part  of  his  head  which  had 
come  in  contact  with  Owen  Connor’s  cudgel.  He 
had  strong  surmises  that  a bump  existed,  and  on 
examining,  he  found  that  a powerful  organ  of 
self-esteem  had  been  created. 

At  this  moment  he  saw  Owen  Connor  running 
past  him  at  full  speed,  pursued  by  his  father  and 
brothers,  the  father  brandishing  a cudgel  in  his 
hand.  The  son,  who  understood  all,  intercepted 
the  pursuers,  commanding  them  in  a loud  voice 
to  stop.  With  his  brothers  he  succeeded;  but  the 
father’s  wrath  was  not  to  be  appeased  so  easily. 
Nothing  now  remained  but  to  stand  in  his  way, 
and  arrest  him  by  friendly  violence;  Denis,  there- 
fore, seized  him,  and,  by  assuming  all  his  author- 
ity, at  length  prevailed  upon  him  to  give  over  the 
chase. 

“ Only  think  of  him,”  exclaimed  the  father, 
breathless — “ only  think  of  him  havin’  the  assur- 
ance to  propose  a match  between  you  an’  his  baby- 
faced daughter!  Ho!  Dher  manim,  Owen  Con- 
nor,” he  shouted,  shaking  the  staff  at  Owen  as 
he  spoke — Dher  manim!  if  I was  near  you,  I’d 
J3ut  your  bones  through  other,  for  darin’  to  min- 
tion  sich  a thing!  ” 

Owen  Connor,  on  finding  that  he  was  no  longer 
pursued,  stood  to  reconnoitre  the  enemy : — 

‘‘  Denis  Oge,”  he  shouted  back,  “ be  off  to 
Maynooth  as  fast  as  possible,  except  you  wish  to 
have  my  poor  child  left  fatherless  entirely.  Go 
way,  an’  my  blessin’  be  along  wid  you;  but  let 
there  be  never  another  word  about  that  business 
while  you  live.” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


473 


“ Father/’  said  Denis,  “ I’m  scandalised  at 
your  conduct  on  this  dignified  occasion.  I am 
also  angry  with  Brian  and  the  rest  of  you.  Did 
you  not  observe  that  the  decent  man  was  ad- 
vanced in  liquor?  I would  have  told  you  so  at 
once,  were  it  not  that  he  was  present  while  I 
spoke.  Did  I not  give  you  as  strong  a hint  as 
possible?  Did  I not  tell  you  that  ‘ I spoke  sig- 
nificantly? ^ Now  hear  me.  Take  the  first  op- 
portunity of  being  reconciled  to  Owen  Connor. 
Be  civil  to  him;  for  I assure  you  he  esteems  me 
very  highly.  Be  also  kind  to  his  daughter,  who 
is  an  excellent  girl;  but  I repeat  it,  her  father  es- 
teems me  highly.” 

“ Does  he  think  highly  of  you,  Denis?  ” 

“ I have  said  so,”  he  repHed. 

“ Then,  throth,  we’re  sorry  for  what  has  hap- 
pened, poor  man.  But  the  never  a one  o’  me, 
Denis,  saw  the  laste  sign  of  liquor  about  him. 
Throth,  we  will  make  it  up  wid  him,  thin.  An’ 
we’ll  be  kind  to  his  daughter,  too,  Denis.” 

“ Then  as  a proof  that  you  will  follow  my  ad- 
vice, I lay  it  on  you  as  a duty,  to  let  me  know  how 
they  are,  whenever  you  write  to  me.” 

“Throth,  we  will,  Denis; — indeed  will  we. 
Come  in  now,  dear ; this  is  the  last  night  you’re  to 
be  wid  us,  an’  they’re  all  missin’  you  in  the 
house.” 

On  that  night  no  person  slept  in  Denis 
O’Shaughnessy’s,  except  our  hero,  and  his  mother 
and  sisters.  As  morning  approached,  a heavi- 
ness of  spirits  prevailed  among  the  family,  which 
of  course  was  not  felt  by  any  except  his  immedi- 


474 


IRELAND 


ate  relations.  The  more  distant  friends,  who  re- 
mained with  them  for  the  night,  sang  and  plied 
the  bottle  with  a steadiness  which  prevented  them 
from  feehng  the  want  of  rest.  About  six 
o’clock,  breakfast  was  ready,  Denis  dressed,  and 
every  arrangement  made  for  his  immediate  de- 
parture. His  parents — his  brothers,  and  his  sis- 
ters, were  all  in  tears,  and  he  himself  could  mas- 
ter his  emotions  with  great  difficulty.  At  length 
the  hour  to  which  the  family  of  our  candidate  had 
long  looked  forward,  arrived,  and  Denis  rose  to 
depart  for  Maynooth.  Except  by  the  sobs  and 
weeping,  the  silence  was  unbroken  when  he  stood 
up  to  bid  them  farewell. 

The  first  he  embraced  was  his  eldest  brother, 
Brian:  “ Brian,”  said  he,  but  he  could  not  pro- 
ceed— ^his  voice  failed  him;  he  then  extended  his 
hand,  but  Brian  clasped  him  in  his  arms — kissed 
his  beloved  brother,  and  wept  with  strong  grief; 
even  then  there  was  not  a dry  eye  in  the  house. 
The  parting  with  his  other  brothers  was  equally 
tender — they  wept  loudly  and  bitterly,  and  Denis 
joined  in  their  grief.  Then  came  his  sisters,  who, 
one  by  one,  hung  upon  him,  and  sobbed  as  if  he 
had  been  dead.  The  grief  of  his  youngest  sis- 
ter, Susan,  was  excessive.  She  threw  her  arms 
about  his  neck,  and  said  she  would  not  let  him  go ; 
Denis  pressed  her  to  his  heart,  and  the  grief 
which  he  felt,  seemed  to  penetrate  his  very  soul. 

“ Susan,”  said  he,  ‘‘  Susan,  may  the  blessing  of 
God  rest  upon  you  till  I see  you  again!  ” — and 
the  affectionate  girl  was  literally  torn  from  his 
arms. 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


475 


But  now  came  the  most  affecting  part  of  the 
ceremony.  His  parents  had  stood  apart — tlieir 
hands  locked  in  each  other,  both  in  tears,  whilst 
he  took  leave  of  the  rest.  He  now  approached 
his  mother,  and  reverently  kneeling  down,  im- 
plored in  words  scarcely  intelligible,  her  blessing 
and  forgiveness;  he  extended  both  his  hands — 
“ Mother,”  he  added,  “ I ask — humbly  and  peni- 
tently, I ask  your  blessing ; it  will  be  sweet  to  me 
from  your  beloved  lips,  dear  mother; — pardon 
me  if  I ever — as  I feel  I often  did — caused  you  a 
pang  of  sorrow  by  my  disobedience  and  folly. 
Oh,  pardon  me — pardon  me  for  all  now!  Bless 
your  son,  kindest  of  mothers,  with  your  best  and 
tenderest  blessing!  ” 

She  threw  herself  in  his  arms,  and  locking  him 
in  her  embrace,  imprinted  every  part  of  his  face 
with  kisses.  “ Oh,  Denis,”  she  exclaimed,  “ there 
is  but  one  more  who  will  miss  you  more  nor  I will 
— Oh,  my  darlin’  son — our  pride — our  pride — 
our  heart’s  pride — our  honour,  and  our  credit! 
Sure,  anim  machree,  I have  nothin’  to  forgive 
you  for,  my  heart’s  life;  but  may  the  blessin’  of 
God  and  of  a happy  mother  light  on  you ! And, 
Denis  asthore,  wasn’t  it  you  that  made  me 
happy,  and  that  made  us  all  happy.  May  my 
blessin’  and  the  blessin’  of  God  rest  upon  you — 
keep  you  from  every  evil,  and  in  every  good,  till 
my  eyes  will  be  made  glad  by  lookin’  on  you 
agin!  ” 

A grief  more  deep,  and  a happiness  more  full, 
than  had  yet  been  felt,  were  now  to  oome  forth. 
Denis  turned  to  his  father — his  companion  in 


476 


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many  a pastime,  and  in  many  a walk  about  their 
native  fields.  In  fair — in  market — at  mass — 
and  at  every  rustic  amusement  within  their  reach 
— ^had  he  been  ever  at  the  side  of  that  indulgent 
father,  whose  heart  and  soul  were  placed  in  him. 

Denis  could  not  utter  a word,  but  kept  his 
streaming  eyes  fixed  upon  the  old  man,  with  that 
yearning  expression  of  the  heart,  which  is  felt 
when  it  desires  to  be  mingled  with  the  very  ex- 
istence of  the  object  that  it  loves.  Old  Denis 
advanced,  under  powerful  struggles  to  suppress 
his  grief : he  knelt,  and  as  the  tears  ran  in  silence 
down  his  cheeks,  thus  addressed  himself  to 
God:— 

“I  kneel  down  before  you,  oh,  my  God!  a 
poor  sinner!  I kneel  here  in  your  blessed  pres- 
ence, with  a heart — with  a happy  heart — this 
day,  to  return  you  thanks  in  the  name  of  myself 
and  the  beloved  partner  you  have  given  me 
through  the  cares  and  thrials  of  this  world,  to 
give  you  our  heart’s  best  thanks  for  graciously 
permittin’  us  to  see  this  day!  It  is  to  you  we 
owe  it,  good  Father  of  Heaven!  It  is  to  you 
w’e  owe  this — an’  him — my  heart’s  own  son,  that 
kneels  before  me  to  be  blessed  by  my  lips!  Yes 
— yes,  he  is — he  is  the  pride  of  our  fives! — He  is 
the  mornin’  star  among  us!  he  was  ever  a good 
son;  and  you  know  that  from  the  day  he  was 
born  to  this  minute,  he  never  gave  me  a sore 
heart!  Take  him  under  your  own  protection! 
Oh,  bless  him  as  we  wish,  if  it  be  your  holy  will 
to  do  so! — Bless  him  and  guard  him,  for  my 
heart’s  in  him:  it  is — ^he  knows  it — everybody 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES  477 

knows  it; — and  if  anything  was  to  happen 
him ” 

He  could  proceed  no  further;  the  idea  of  los- 
ing his  son,  even  in  imagination,  overpowered 
him; — he  rose,  locked  him  to  his  breast,  and  for 
many  minutes  the  grief  of  both  was  loud  and 
vehement. 

Denis’s  uncle  now  interposed;  “ The  horses,” 
said  he,  “ are  at  the  door,  an’  time’s  passin’.” 

“ Och,  thrue  for  you,  Barny,”  said  old  Denis; 
“ come,  acushla,  an’  let  me  help  you  on  your 
horse.  We  will  go  on  quickly,  as  we’re  to  meet 
Father  Finnerty  at  the  crass-roads.” 

Denis  then  shook  hands  with  them  all,  not  for- 
getting honest  Phadrick  Murray,  who  exclaimed, 
as  he  bid  him  farewell,  Arrahl  Misther  Denis, 
aroon,  won’t  you  be  thinkin’  of  me  now  an’  thin 
in  the  College!  Faix,  if  you  always  argue  as 
bravely  wid  the  Collegians  as  you  did  the  day 
you  proved  me  to  be  an  ass,  you’ll  soon  be  at 
the  head  of  them!” 

‘‘  Denis,”  said  the  uncle,  “ your  father  excuses 
me  in  regard  of  havin’  to  attend  my  cattle  in  the 
fair  to-day.  You  won’t  be  angry  wid  me,  dear, 
for  lavin’  you  now,  as  my  road  lies  this  other  way. 
May  the  blessin’  of  God  and  his  holy  mother 
keep  you  till  I see  you  agin!  an’,  Denis,  if  you’d 
send  me  a scrape  or  two,  lettin’  me  know  what  a 
good  parish  ’ud  be  worth;  for  I intend  next 
spring  to  go  wid  little  Barny  to  the  Latin!  ” 
This  Denis  promised  to  do;  and  after  bidding 
him  farewell,  he  and  his  friends — some  on  horse- 
back and  numbers  on  foot — set  out  on  their  jour- 


478 


IRELAND 


ney;  and  as  they  proceeded  through  their  own 
neighbourhood,  many  a crowd  was  collected  to 
get  a sight  of  Denis  O^Shaughnessy  going  to 
Maynooth. 

ii£m  si/.  s!/  sl/_  si/  si/  \t» 

»!s  /|V  V|s  V|v  vjv 

^ sIa  s!/  si/ 

/f'  /n  Vjy  vfr 

It  was  one  day  in  autumn,  after  a lapse  of 
about  two  years,  that  the  following  conversation 
took  place  between  a wealthy  grazier  from  the 
neighbouring  parish,  and  one  of  our  hero’s  most 
intimate  acquaintances.  It  is  valuable  only  as 
it  throws  light  upon  Denis’s  ultimate  situation 
in  life,  which,  after  all,  was  not  what  our  readers 
might  be  inclined  to  expect. 

“ Why,  then,  honest  man,”  said  Denis’s  friend, 
“ that’s  a murdherin’  fine  dhrove  o’  bullocks 
you’re  bringin’  to  the  fair?’ 

“ Ay!  ” replied  the  grazier,  “ you  may  say  that. 
I’m  thinkin’  it  wouldn’t  be  asay  to  aquil  them.” 

“ Faix,  sure  enough.  Where  wor  they  fed, 
wid  simmission?” 

“Up  in  Teemahusshogue.  Arrah,  will  you 
tell  me  what  weddin’  was  that  that  passed  awhile 
agone? ” 

“ A son  of  ould  Denis  O’Shaughnessy’s,  God 
be  marciful  to  his  sowl!  ” 

“ Denis  O’Shaughnessy ! Is  it  him  they  called 
the  ‘ Pigeon-house?  ’ An’  is  it  possible  he’s 
dead?” 

“ He’s  dead,  nabour,  an’,  in  throth,  an  honest 
man’s  dead ! ” 

“ As  ever  broke  the  world’s  bread.  The  Lord 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


479 


make  his  bed  in  heaven  this  day!  Hasn’t  he  a 
son  lamin’  to  be  a priest  in  JMaynewth?  ” 

“Ah!  Fahreer  gairli!  That’s  all  over.” 

“ Why,  is  he  dead,  too?  ” 

“ Be  Gorra,  no — but  the  conthrairy  to  that. 
’Twas  his  weddin’  you  seen  passin’  a minute 
agone.” 

“ Is  it  the  young  Hogarth’s?  Musha,  bad  end 
to  you,  man  alive,  an’  spake  out.  Tell  us  how 
that  happened?  Sowl  it’s  a quare  business,  an’ 
him  was  in  Maynewth!  ” 

“ Faith,  he  was  so;  an’  they  say  there  wasn’t 
a man  in  Majmewth  able  to  tache  him.  But, 
passin’  that  over — you  see,  the  father,  ould  Denis 
— an’  be  Gorra,  he  was  very  bright  too,  till  the 
son  grewn  up,  an’  drownded  him  wid  the  lan- 
guidges — the  father  you  see,  ould  Denis  himself, 
tuck  a faver  whin  the  son  was  near  a year  in  the 
college,  an’  it  proved  too  many  for  him.  He 
died;  an’  whin  young  Dinny  hard  of  it,  the  divil 
a one  of  him  would  stay  any  longer  in  Maynewth. 
He  came  home  like  a scarecrow,  said  he  lost  his 
health  in  it,  an’  refused  to  go  back.  Faith,  it 
was  a lucky  thing  that  his  father  died  before- 
hand, for  it  would  brake  his  heart.  As  it  was, 
they  had  terrible  work  about  it.  But  ould  Denis 
is  never  dead  while  young  Denis  is  livin’.  Faix, 
he  was  as  stiff  as  they  wor  stout,  an’  wouldn’t 
give  in ; so,  afther  ever  so  much  wranglin’,  he  got 
the  upper  hand  by  tellin’  them  that  he  wasn’t 
able  to  bear  the  college  at  all;  an’  that  if  he’d 
go  back  to  it  he’d  soon  folly  his  father.” 


480 


IRELAND 


“An’  what  turned  him  against  the  college? 
Was  that  thrue?  ” 

“ Thme! — thrue  indeed!  The  same  youth  was 
never  at  a loss  for  a piece  of  invintion  whin  it 
sarved  him.  No,  the  sarra  word  of  thruth  at  all 
was  in  it.  He  soodhered  an’  palavered  a daugh- 
ter of  Owen  Connor’s,  Susy — all  the  daughther 
he  has,  indeed — before  he  wint  to  May- 
newth  at  all,  they  say.  She  herself  wasn’t  for 
marryin’  him,  in  regard  of  a vow  she  had;  but 
there’s  no  doubt  but  he  made  her  fond  of  him, 
for  he  has  a tongue  that  ’ud  make  black  white, 
or  white  black,  for  that  matther.  So,  be  Gorra, 
he  got  the  vow  taken  off  of  her  by  the  Bishop; 
she  soon  recovered  her  health,  for  she  was  dyin’ 
for  love  of  him,  an’ — you  seen  their  weddin’.  It 
’ud  be  worth  your  while  to  go  a day’s  journey  to 
get  a sight  of  her — she’s  allowed  to  be  the  pur- 
tiest  girl  that  ever  was  in  this  part  o’  the  coun- 
thry.” 

“Well!  well!  It’s  a quare  world.  An’  is  the 
family  all  agreeable  to  it  now?  ” 

“Hut!  where  was  the  use  of  houldin’  out 
aginst  him?  I tell  you,  he’d  make  them  agree- 
able to  any  think,  wanst  he  tuck  it  into  his  head. 
Indeed,  it’s  he  that  has  the  great  lamin’  all  out! 
Why,  now,  you’d  hardly  b’lieve  me,  when  I tell 
you  that  he’d  prove  you  to  be  an  ass,  in  three 
minutes ; make  it  as  plain  as  the  sun.  He  would ; 
an’  often  made  an  ass  o’  myself.” 

“ Why  now  that  I look  at  you — aren’t  you 
Dan  Murray’s  nephew?  ” 


TRAITS  AND  STORIES 


481 


“ Phadrick  Murray,  an'  divil  a one  else,  sure 
enough." 

“ How  is  your  family,  Phadrick?  Why,  man, 
you  don’t  know  your  friends — my  name’s 
Cahill.’’ 

“ Is  it  Andy  Cahill  of  Phuldhu?  Why,  thin, 
death  alive,  Andy,  how  is  every  bit  of  you? 
Andy,  I’m  regulatin’  everything  at  this  weddin’, 
an’  you  must  turn  over  your  horse  till  we  have 
a dhrop  for  ould  times.  Bless  my  sowl!  sure.  I’d 
know  your  brother  round  a corner;  an’  yourself, 
too,  I ought  to  know,  only  that  I didn’t  see  you 
since  you  wor'a  slip  of  a gorsoon.  Come  away, 
man,  sure  thim  men  o’  yours  can  take  care  o’  the 
cattle.  You’ll  asily  overtake  thim.’’ 

“ Throth,  I don’t  care  if  I have  a glass  wid  an 
ould  friend.  But,  I hope  your  whiskey  won’t 
overtake  me,  Phadrick?  ’’ 

“ The  never  a fear  of  it,  your  father’s  son  has 
too  good  a head  for  that.  Ough!  man  alive,  if 
you  could  stay  for  the  weddin’!  Divil  a sich  a 
let  out  ever  was  seen  in  the  county  widin  the 
mimory  of  the  ouldest  man  in  it,  as  it  ’ill  be. 
Dinis  is  the  boy  that  ’ud  have  the  dacent  thing 
or  nothin’.’’ 

The  grazier  and  Phadrick  Murray  then  bent 
their  steps  to  Owen  Connor’s  house,  where  the 
wedding  was  held.  It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that 
Phadrick  plied  his  new  acquaintance  to  some  pur- 
pose. Ere  two  hours  passed  the  latter  had  for- 
gotten his  bullocks  as  completely  as  if  he  had 
never  seen  them,  and  his  drovers  were  left  to 


III— 31 


482 


IRELAND 


their  own  discretion  in  effecting  their  sale.  As 
for  Andy  Cahill,  like  many  another  sapient 
Irishman,  he  preferred  his  pleasure  to  his  busi- 
ness, got  drunk,  and  danced,  and  sung  at  Denis 
O’Shaughnessy’s  wedding,  which  we  are  bound 
to  say  was  the  longest,  the  most  hospitable,  and 
most  frolicsome  that  ever  has  been  remembered 
in  the  parish  from  that  day  to  the  present. 


NOTES 


1 Partridge. 

2 It  is  supposed  in  Ireland,  when  a corpse  retains,  for  a longer 
space  of  time  than  usual,  any  thing  like  animal  heat,  that  some 
person  belonging  to  the  family  of  the  deceased  will  die  within  a 
year. 

3 My  body  to  Satan ! 

4Vread — Anglice,  Margaret. 

5 Young  pulse  of  my  heart!  my  soul  is  within  thee! 

6 The  story  of  Donagh,  the  Author  has  reason  to  believe,  was  the 
means  of  first  bringing  this  curious  piece  of  antiquity  into  notice. 
There  is  little  to  be  added  here  to  what  is  in  the  sketch,  con- 
cerning its  influence  over  the  people,  and  the  use  of  it  as  a 
blessed  relic,  sought  for  by  those  who  wished  to  apply  a certain 
test  of  guilt  or  innocence  to  such  well-known  thieves  as  scrupled 
not  to  perjure  themselves  on  the  Bible.  For  this  purpose  it  was 
a perfect  conscience-trap,  th©  most  hardened  miscreant  never  hav- 
ing been  known  to  risk  a false  oath  upon  it.  Many  singular  an- 
ecdotes are  related  concerning  it. 

The  Author  feels  great  pleasure  in  subjoining  two  very  interest- 
ing letters  upon  the  subject — one  from  an  accomplished  scholar, 
the  late  Rev.  Dr.  O’Beirne,  master  of  the  distinguished  school  of 
Portora  at  Enniskillen;  the  other  from  Sir  William  Betham,  one 
of  the  soundest  and  most  learned  of  our  Irish  Antiquaries.  Both 
gentlemen  differ  in  their  opinion  respecting  the  antiquity  of  the 
Donagh;  and,  as  the  Author  is  incompetent  to  decide  between 
them,  he  gives  their  respective  letters  to  the  public. 

‘‘Portora,  August  15,  1832. 

“ My  dear  Carleton, — It  is  well  you  wrote  to  me  about  the 
Dona.  Your  letter,  which  reached  me  this  day,  has  proved  that 
I was  mistaken  in  supposing  that  the  promised  drawing  was  no 
longer  necessary.  I had  imagined,  that  as  you  must  have  seen 
the  Dona  with  Mr.  Smith,  any  communication  from  me  on  the 
subject  must  be  superfluous.  And  now  that  I have  taken  up  my 

483 


484 


IRELAND 


pen  in  compliance  with  your  wish,  what  can  I tell  you  that  you 
have  not  perhaps  conveyed  to  yourself  by  ocular  inspection,  and 
better  than  I can  detail  it? 

“ I accompanied  Mr.  S.  to  Brookborough,  and  asked  very  par- 
ticularly of  the  old  woman,  late  the  possessor  of  the  Dona,  what 
she  knew  of  its  history;  but  she  could  say  nothing  about  it, 
only  that  it  had  belonged  to  ‘the  Lord  of  Enniskillen.’  This  was 
the  Fermanagh  Maguire,  who  took  an  active  part  in  the  shock- 
ing rebellion  of  1641,  and  was  subsequently  executed.  His  castle, 
the  ruins  of  which  are  on  the  grounds  of  Portora,  was  stormed 
during  the  wars  of  that  miserable  time.  When  I entered  on  my 
inquiries  for  you,  I anticipated  much  in  the  way  of  tradition, 
which,  I hoped,  might  prove  amusing  at  least;  but  disappointment 
met  me  on  every  hand.  The  old  woman  could  not  even  detail 
distinctly  how  the  Dona  had  come  into  her  possession:  it  was 
brought  into  her  family,  she  said,  by  a priest.  The  country  peo- 
ple had  imagined  wonders  relative  to  the  contents  of  the  box. 
The  chief  treasure  it  was  supposed  to  contain  was  a lock  of  the 
Virgin  Mary’s  hair!  ! ! 

“ After  much  inquiry,  I received  the  following  vague  detail  from 
a person  in  this  county;  and  let  me  remark,  by  the  by,  that 
though  the  possession  of  the  Dona  was  a matter  of  boast  to  the 
Maguires,  yet  I could  not  gain  the  slightest  information  respecting 
it  from  even  the  most  intelligent  of  the  name.  But  now  for  the 
detail : — 

“ ‘ Donagh  O’Hanlon,  an  inhabitant  of  the  upper  part  of  this 
county  (Fermanagh),  went,  about  600  years  ago,  (longer  than 
which  time,  in  the  opinion  of  a celebrated  antiquary,  the  kind  of 
engraving  on  it  could  not  have  been  made),  on  a pious  pilgrim- 
age to  Rome.  His  Holiness  of  the  Vatican,  whose  name  has  es- 
caped the  recollection  of  the  person  who  gave  this  information, 
as  a reward  for  this  supererogatory  journey,  presented  him  with 
the  Dona.  As  soon  as  Donagh  returned,  the  Dona  was  placed  in 
the  monastery  of  Aughadurcher  (now  Aughalurcher).  But  at 
the  time  when  Cromwell  was  in  this  country,  the  monastery  was 
destroyed,  and  this  Ark  of  the  Covenant  hid  by  some  of  the  faith- 
ful at  a small  lake,  named  Lough  Eye,  between  Lisbellaw  and 
Tempo.  It  was  removed  thence  when  peace  was  restored,  and 
again  placed  in  some  one  of  the  neighbouring  chapels,  when,  as 
before  in  Aughadurcher,  the  oaths  were  administered  with  all  the 
superstition  that  a depraved  imagination  could  invent,  as  “ that 
their  thighs  might  rot  off,”  “ that  they  might  go  mad,”  &c.,  &c. 

‘“When  Kings  James  and  William  made  their  appearance,  it 


NOTES 


485 


was  again  concealed  in  Largy,  an  old  castle  at  Sir  H.  Brooke’s 
deer-park.  Father  Antony  Maguire,  a priest  of  the  Romish 
Church,  dug  it  up  from  under  the  stairs  in  this  old  castle,  after 
the  battle  of  the  Boyne,  deposited  it  in  a chapel,  and  it  was  used 
as  before. 

“ ‘ After  Father  Antony’s  death  it  fell  into  the  possession  of  his 
niece,  who  took  it  over  to  the  neighbourhood  of  Florence-court. 
But  the  Maguires  were  not  satisfied  that  a thing  so  sacred  should 
depart  from  the  family,  and  at  their  request  it  was  brought 
back.’ 

“ For  the  confirmation  of  the  former  part  of  this  account,  the 
informant  refers  you  to  Sir  James  Ware.  I have  not  Ware’s 
book,  and  cannot  therefore  tell  you  how  much  of  this  story  is 
given  by  him,  or  whether  any.  In  my  opinion  there  is  nothing 
detailed  by  him  at  all  bearing  on  the  subject.  The  latter  part 
of  the  story  rests,  we  are  told,  on  tradition. 

“ As  I confess  myself  not  at  all  versed  in  Irish  antiquities,  it 
may  appear  somewhat  presumptuous  in  me  to  venture  an  opinion 
respecting  this  box  and  its  contents,  which  is,  I understand,  op- 
posed to  that  of  our  spirited  and  intelligent  antiquary.  Sir  Wm. 
Betham.  I cannot  persuade  myself  that  either  the  box  or  the 
contained  MSS.  were  of  such  an  age  as  he  claims  for  them.  And, 
first,  of  the  box: — 

“At  present  the  MSS.  are  contained  in  a wooden  box;  the 
wood  is,  I believe,  yew.  It  cannot  be  pronounced,  I .think  with 
any  certainty,  whether  the  wooden  box  was  originally  part  of  the 
shrine  of  the  precious  MSS.  It  is  verj'  rude  in  its  construction, 
and  has  not  a top  or  lid.  Indeed  it  appears  to  me  to  have  been 
a coarse  botched-up  thing  to  receive  the  MSS.  after  the  original 
box,  which  was  made  of  brass,  had  fallen  to  pieces. 

“ The  next  thing  that  presents  itself  to  us  is  the  remnant  of  a 
brass  box,  washed  with  silver,  and  rudely  ornamented  with  tracery. 
The  two  ends  and  the  front  are  all  that  remain  of  the  brass  box. 

“You  may  then  notice  what  was  evidently  an  addition  of  later 
times,  the  highly  ornamented  gilt-silver  work,  made  fast  on  the 
remains  of  the  brass  box,  and  the  chased  compartments,  which 
seem  to  have  formed  the  top  or  lid  of  the  box.  But,  as  you  have 
seen  the  whole,  I need  not  perhaps  have  troubled  you  with  this 
description.  I shall  only  direct  your  attention  to  the  two  in- 
scriptions. In  the  chasing  you  will  see  that  they  are  referred  to 
their  supposed  places. 

“ The  upper  inscription,  when  deciphered,  is — 

“‘Johannes:  O’Karbri:  Comorbanus:  S.  Tignacii:  Pmisit.’  For 


486 


IRELAND 


S.  Tignacii  I would  conjecture  St.  Ignacii.  P,  I should  con- 
jecture to  be  Presbyterus.  On  this  I should  be  very  glad  to  have 
Sir  William’s  opinion.  I cannot  imagine,  if  P stands  part  of  a 
compound  with  misit,  what  it  can  mean.  I would  read  and  trans- 
late it  thus — ‘John  O’Carbery,  coadjutor,  priest,  of  the  order  of 
St.  Ignatius,  sent  it.’ 

“ This  inscription  is  on  a narrow  slip  of  silver,  and  is  presumed 
to  have  formed  part  of  the  under  edge  of  the  upper  part  of  the 
back  of  the  box.  The  lower  inscription  is — 

‘Johannes  O’Barrdan  fabricavit.’ 

“ This  also  is  on  a slip  of  silver,  and  appears  to  have  fitted  into 
a space  on  the  upper  surface  which  is  supposed  to  have  been  the 
top,  and  to  have  lain  in  between  the  two  square  compartments  on 
the  left  hand:  this  is  marked  in  the  drawing.  I have  expressed 
myself  here  in  the  language  of  doubt,  for  the  box  is  all  in  con- 
fusion. 

“ Now,  on  the  inscriptions,  I would  say,  that  they  indicate  to 
me  a date  much  later  than  some  gentlemen  who  have  seen  the 
box  are  willing  to  ascribe  to  it.  In  the  island  of  Devenish,  in 
our  lake  (Lough  Erne),  is  an  inscription,  that  was  discovered  in 
the  ruins  (still  standing)  of  a priory,  that  was  built  there  A.  D. 
1449.  The  characters  in  this  inscription  are  much  more  remote 
from  the  Roman  character  in  use  among  us  than  those  used  in 
the  inscriptions  on  the  box.  The  letters  on  the  box  bespeak  a 
later  period,  when  English  cultivation  had  begun  to  produce  some 
effect  in  our  island,  and  the  Roman  character  was  winning  its 
way  into  general  use.  I shall  probably  be  able  to  let  you  see  the 
Devenish  inscription,  and  a juxta  position  of  it  and  the  others 
will  satisfy  you,  I think,  on  this  point.  In  my  opinion,  then,  the 
box,  with  all  its  ornaments,  must  have  been  made  at  some  time 
since  the  year  1449.  I cannot  think  it  reasonable  to  suppose  that 
an  inscription,  containing  many  letters  like  the  Roman  characters, 
should  be  more  ancient  than  one  not  only  having  fewer  letters  re- 
sembling them,  but  also  having  the  letters  that  differ  differing  es- 
sentially. 

“ Now  for  the  MSS. 

“ I am  deficient  in  antiquarian  lore : this  I have  already  con- 
fessed; but  perhaps  I want  also  the  creative  fancy  and  devoted 
faith  of  the  genuine  antiquary.  I cannot,  for  example,  persuade 
myself,  that  a MS.  written  in  a clear,  uniform,  small  character 
of  the  Roman  form,  could  have  been  written  in  remote  times, 
when  there  is  reason  to  think  that  MSS.  were  written  in  uncial 


NOTES 


487 


characters  only,  without  stops,  and  with  few  or  no  divisions  into 
words,  sentences,  or  paragraphs.  The  palimprest  MS.  examined 
by  Dr.  Barrett  is  in  uncial  characters,  and  is  referred  by  him  to 
the  6th  or  7th  century.  Cic  de  Republica,  published  by  Angelo 
Mai,  is  assigned  to  much  the  same  period.  Small  letters,  and  the 
distinctions  above  mentioned,  were  the  invention  of  later  times. 
I cannot  therefore  persuade  myself  that  this  MS.  is  of  so  early 
an  age  as  some  would  ascribe  to  it,  though  I will  not  take  it  upon 
me  to  assign  the  precise  time  in  which  it  was  written.  The  char- 
acters are  decidedly  and  distinctly  those  now  called  the  Roman: 
they  have  not  many  abbreviations,  as  far  as  I could  judge,  and 
they  are  written  with  much  clearness  and  regularity.  They  are 
not  the  UtercB  cursivce,  or  those  used  in  writing  for  the  sake  of 
facility  and  connexion:  they  seem  rather  formed  more  in  imita- 
tion of  printed  letters.  SECUNDUM — This  imperfect  attempt  to 
present  one  of  the  words,  will  explain  my  meaning.  But  I had 
better  not  weary  you  any  more  with  my  crude  notions.  I shall 
be  very  glad  to  hear  your  opinion,  or  that  of  Sir  William  Betham, 
to  whom  I should  bow  with  all  the  respect  due  to  talent  and 
worth.  I must  avow  my  distrust  of  Irish  antiquities;  yet,  allow 
me  to  add,  that  there  is  no  man  more  willing  to  be  converted 
from  my  heresy,  if  you  would  call  it  so,  than 

“My  dear  Carleton, 

“ Your  friend  and  servant, 

“A.  O’BEIRNE.” 


“ Stradbrook  House,  October,  1832. 

“ Dear  Sir, — I have  read  Dr.  O’Beirne’s  important  letter  on  the 
Dona:  the  account  he  has  collected  of  its  recent  history  is  full  of 
interest,  and  for  the  most  part,  I have  no  doubt,  correct.  His 
speculations  respecting  its  antiquity  I cannot  give  my  adhesion  to, 
not  feeling  a doubt  myself  on  the  subject.  When  I have  time  to 
investigate  it  fully,  I am  satisfied  that  this  box,  like  the  others, 
of  which  accounts  have  already  been  published,  will  be  found 
mentioned  in  the  Irish  Annals.  'Kle  inscriptions,  however,  fully 
identify  the  MS.  and  the  box,  and  show  that  antiquaries,  from 
the  execution  of  the  workmanship  and  figures  on  these  interesting 
reliques,  often  underrate  their  antiquity — a fault  which  the  world 
are  little  inclined  to  give  them  credit  for,  and  which  they  fall  into 
from  an  anxiety  to  err  on  what  they  consider  the  side  which  is 
least  likely  to  produce  the  smile  of  contempt  or  the  sneer  of  in- 
credulity, forgetting  that  it  is  the  sole  business  of  an  antiquarian 


488  IRELAND 

and  historian  to  speak  the  truth,  disregarding  even  contempt  for 
so  doing. 

“ I had  been  somewhat  lengthy  in  my  description  of  the  Dona, 
and  from  habit,  entered  into  a minute  account  of  all  its  parts, 
quite  forgetting  that  you,  perhaps,  do  not  possess  an  appetite  for 
antiquarian  detail,  and  therefore  might  be  better  pleased  to  have 
a general  outline  than  such  a recital.  I therefore  proceed  to  give 
it  as  briefly  as  possible,  not,  however,  omitting  any  material  points. 

“ The  Irish  word  t5omnAc,  or  Domnach,  which  is  pronounced 
Dona,  means  the  Lord’s  day,  or  the  first  day  in  the  week,  sancti- 
fied or  consecrated  to  the  service  of  the  Lord.  It  is  also  in  that 
sense  used  for  a house,  church,  or  chapel.  Donaghmore  means 
the  great  church  or  chapel  dedicated  to  God.  This  box,  being 
holy,  as  containing  the  Gospels,  and  having  the  crucifix  thereon, 
was  dedicated  or  consecrated  to  the  service  of  God.  Like  the 
Caah,  the  Meeshach,  and  Dhimma’s  box,  it  is  of  brass,  covered  with 
plates  of  silver,  and  resembles  the  two  former  in  having  a box  of 
yew  inside,  which  was  the  original  case  of  the  MS.  and  became 
venerated  so  much,  on  that  account,  as  to  be  deemed  worthy  of 
being  inclosed  with  it  in  the  shrine  made  by  permission  of  John 
O’Carberry,  Abbot  of  Clonmacnois  in  the  14th  century. 

“ The  top  of  the  Dona  is  divided  by  a cross,  on  the  lower  arm  of 
which  is  a figure  of  the  Saviour;  over  his  head  is  a shield,  divided 
'per  pale,  between  two  crystal  settings;  on  the  dexter,  is  a hand 
holding  a scourge  or  whip  of  three  thongs,  and  on  a chief  a ring; 
on  the  sinister,  on  a chief  the  same  charge  and  three  crucifixion 
nails.  In  the  first  compartment,  or  quarter  of  the  cross,  are  rep- 
resentations of  St.  Columbkill,  St.  Bridget,  and  St.  Patrick.  In 
the  second,  a bishop  pierced  with  two  arrows,  and  two  figures  of 
St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul.  In  the  third,  the  archangel  Michael 
treading  on  the  dragon,  and  the  Virgin  Mary  and  the  infant 
Jesus.  In  the  fourth,  St.  Tigernach  handing  to  his  successor,  St. 
Sinellus,  the  Dona;  and  a female  figure,  perhaps  Mary  Magdalen. 

“ The  front  of  the  Dona  is  ornamented  with  three  crystal  set- 
tings, surmounted  by  grotesque  figures  of  animals.  Between  these 
are  four  horsemen  with  swords  drawn,  in  full  speed, 

“ The  right  hand  end  has  a figure  of  St.  Tigernach,  and  St. 
John  the  Baptist.  The  left  hand  end  a figure  of  St.  Catherine 
with  her  wheel. 

“ The  Dona  is  nine  inches  and  a half  long,  seven  wide,  and  not 
quite  four  thick. 

“ So  far  I have  been  enabled  to  describe  the  Dona  from  the  evi- 
dently accurate  and  well  executed  drawings  you  were  so  good  as 


NOTES 


489 


to  present  to  me.  Why  the  description  is  less  particular  than  it 
should  have  been,  I shall  take  another  opportunity  of  explaining 
to  you. 

“There  are  three  inscriptions  on  the  Dona:  one  on  a scroll  from 
the  hand  of  the  figure  of  the  Baptist,  of  ECCE  AGNUS  DEI. 
The  two  others  are  on  plates  of  silver,  but  their  exact  position 
on  the  box  is  not  marked  in  the  drawing,  but  may  be  guessed  by 
certain  places  which  the  plates  exactly  fit. 

“ The  first  is — 

“JOHANNES:  OBARRDAN:  FABRICAVIT. 

“ The  second — 

“JOHS:  OKARBRI:  COMORBANVS:  S.  TIGNACII: 

PMISIT. 

“ i.  e. 

John  O Barrdan  made  this  box  by  the  'permission  of  John  O 
Carbry,  successor  of  St.  Tigernach/ 

“ St.  Tierny,  or  St.  Tigernach,  was  third  Bishop  of  Clogher,  hav- 
ing succeeded  St.  Maccartin  in  the  year  506.  In  the  list  of  bishops, 
St.  Patrick  is  reckoned  the  first,  and  founder  of  the  see.  Tiger- 
nach died  the  4th  of  April,  548. 

“ John  O’Carbry  was  abbot  of  Clones,  or  Clounish,  in  the  County 
of  Monaghan,  and  as  such  was  comorb,  or  corb  * — i.  e.  successor — 
of  Tigernach,  who  was  founder  of  the  abbey  and  removed  the 
episcopal  seat  from  Clogher  to  Clounish.  Many  of  the  abbots  were 
also  bishops  of  the  see.  He  died  in  1353.  How  long  he  was  ab- 
bot does  not  appear;  but  the  age  of  tlie  outside  covering  of  the 
Dona  is  fixed  to  the  14th  century. 

“ Since  the  foregoing  was  written  I have  seen  the  Dona,  which 
was  exhibited  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy. 
It  has  been  put  together  at  a guess,  but  different  from  the  draw- 
ing. There  is  inside  O’Barrdan’s  case,  another  of  silver  plates 
some  centuries  older,  and  inside  that  the  yew  box,  which  originally 
contained  the  manuscripts  now  so  united  by  damp  as  to  be  appar- 
ently inseparable,  and  nearly  illegible;  for  they  have  lost  the  colour 
of  vellum,  and  are  quite  black,  and  very  much  decayed.  The  old 
Irish  version  of  the  New  Testament  is  well  worthy  of  being 
edited;  it  is,  I conceive,  the  oldest  Latin  version  extant,  and 
varies  much  from  the  Vulgate  or  Jerome’s. 


* All  the  successors  of  the  founder  saints  were  called  by  the 
Irish,  comorbs,  or  corbs.  The  reader  will  perceive  that  O’Carbry 
was  a distant  but  not  the  immediate,  successor  of  St.  Tigernach. 


490 


IRELAND 


“The  MS.  inclosed  in  the  yew  box  appears  from  the  two  mem- 
branes handed  me  by  your  friend  Mr.  , to  be  a copy  of  the 

Gospels — at  least  those  membranes  were  part  of  the  two  first 
membranes  of  the  Gospel  of  St.  Matthew,  and,  I would  say,  writ- 
ten in  the  5th  or  6th  century;  were,  probably,  the  property  of  St. 
Tigernach  himself,  and  passed  most  likely  to  the  abbots  of  donn- 
ish, his  successors,  as  an  heir-loom,  until  it  fell  into  the  hands  of  the 
Maguires,  the  most  powerful  of  the  princes  of  the  country  now  com- 
prising the  diocese  of  Clogher.  Dr.  O’Beirne’s  letter  I trust  you 
will  publish.  I feel  much  indebted  to  that  gentleman  for  his 
courteous  expressions  towards  me,  and  shall  be  most  happy  to  have 
the  pleasure  of  being  personally  known  to  him. 

“You  must  make  allowance  for  the  hasty  sketch  which  is  here 
given.  The  advanced  state  of  your  printing  would  not  allow  me 
time  for  a more  elaborate  investigation. 

“ Believe  me,  my  dear  Sir, 

“ Very  sincerely  yours, 

“ W.  BETHAM.” 


We  cannot  close  the  illustrations  of  this  ancient  and  venerable 
relic  without  adding  an  extract  from  a most  interesting  and  au- 
thentic history  of  it,  contributed  by  our  great  Irish  antiquarian, 
George  Petrie,  Esq.,  R.H.A.,  M.R.I.A.,  to  the  18th  vol.  of  the 
Transactions  of  the  Royal  Irish  Academy,  together  with  an  en- 
graving of  it  taken  from  a drawing  made  by  the  same  accom- 
plished artist. 

“ I shall  endeavour  to  arrange  these  evidences  in  consecutive 
order. 

“ It  is  of  importance  to  prove  that  this  cumdach,  or  reliquary, 
has  been  from  time  immemorial  popularly  known  by  the  name  of 
Domnach,  or,  as  it  is  pronounced,  Donagh,  a word  derived  from 
the  Latin  Dominims.  This  fact  is  proved  by  a recent  popular 
tale  of  very  great  power,  by  Mr.  Carleton,  called  the  ‘ Donagh,’  in 
which  the  superstitious  uses  to  which  this  reliquary  has  been  long 
applied,  are  ably  exhibited,  and  made  subservient  to  the  interests 
of  the  story.  It  is  also  particularly  described  under  this  name  by 
the  Rev.  John  Groves,  in  his  account  of  the  parish  of  Errigal- 
Keeroge,  in  the  third  volume  of  Shaw  Mason’s  Parochial  Survey, 
page  163,  though,  as  the  writer  states,  it  was  not  actually  pre- 
served in  that  parish. 

“ 2.  The  inscriptions  on  the  external  case  leave  no  doubt  that 
the  Domnach  belonged  to  the  monastery  of  Clones,  or  see  of 


NOTES 


4.91 


Clogher.  The  John  O’Karbri,  the  Comharb,  or  successor  of  St. 
Tighernach,  recorded  in  one  of  those  inscriptions  as  the  person 
at  whose  cost,  or  by  whose  permission,  the  outer  ornamental  case 
was  made,  was,  according  to  the  Annals  of  the  Four  Masters,  Ab- 
bot of  Clones,  and  died  in  the  year  1353.  He  is  properly  called 
in  that  inscription  Comorbanus,  or  successor  of  Tighernach,  who 
was  the  first  Abbot  and  Bishop  of  the  Church  of  Clones,  to  which 
place,  after  the  death  of  St.  Mac-Carthen  in  the  year  506,  he  re- 
moved the  see  of  Clogher,  having  erected  a new  church,  which 
he  dedicated  to  the  apostles  Peter  and  Paul.  St.  Tighernach,  ac- 
cording to  all  our  ancient  authorities,  died  in  the  year  548. 

“3.  It  appears  from  a fragment  of  an  ancient  life  of  St.  Mac- 
Carthen,  preserved  by  Colgan,  that  a remarkable  reliquary  was 
given  by  St.  Patrick  to  that  saint  when  he  placed  him  over  the 
see  of  Clogher. 

“‘Et  addidit,  [Patricius]  Accipe,  inquit,  baculum  itineris  mei, 
quo  ego  membra  mea  sustento  et  scrinium  in  quo  de  sanctorum 
Apostolorum  reliquiis,  et  de  sanctae  Mariae  capillis,  et  sancta  Cruce 
Domini,  et  sepulchro  ejus,  et  aliis  reliquiis  sanctis  continentur. 
Quibus  dictis  dimisit  cum  osculo  pacis  paterna  fultum  benedic- 
tione.’ — Colgan,  Vit.  S.  Macaerthenni  (24  Mart.)  Acta  SS.  p.  738. 

“ From  this  passage  we  learn  one  great  cause  of  the  sanctity  in 
which  this  reliquary  was  held,  and  of  the  uses  of  the  several  re- 
cesses for  reliques  which  it  presents.  It  also  explains  the  his- 
torical rilievo  on  the  top — the  figure  of  St.  Patrick  presenting  the 
Domnach  to  St.  Mac-Carthen. 

“4.  In  Jocelyn’s  Life  of  St.  Patrick  (cap.  143),  we  have  also 
a notice  to  the  same  effect,  but  in  which  the  Domnach  is  called  a 
Chrismatorium,  and  the  relics  are  not  specified — in  all  probability 
because  they  were  not  then  appended  to  it. 

“ In  these  authorities  there  is  evidently  much  appearance  of  the 
Monkish  frauds  of  the  middle  ages;  but  still  they  are  evidences 
of  the  tradition  of  the  country  that  such  a gift  had  been  made 
by  Patrick  to  Mac-Carthen.  And  as  we  advance  higher  in  chrono- 
logical authorities,  we  find  the  notice  of  this  gift  stripped  of  much 
of  its  acquired  garb  of  fiction,  and  related  with  more  of  the 
simplicity  of  truth. 

“ 5.  In  the  life  of  St.  Patrick  called  the  Tripartite,  usually  as- 
cribed to  St.  Evun,  an  author  of  the  seventh  century,  and  which, 
even  in  its  present  interpolated  state,  is  confessedly  prior  to  the 
tenth,  there  is  the  following  remarkable  passage  (as  translated 
by  Colgan  from  the  original  Irish)  relative  to  the  gift  of  the 
Domnach  from  the  Apostle  of  Ireland  to  St.  Mac-Carthen,  in 


492  IRELAND 

which  it  is  expressly  described  under  the  very  same  appellation 
which  it  still  bears. 

“ ‘ Aliquantis  ergo  evolutis  diebus  Mac-Caertennum,  sive  Caer- 
thennum  Episcopum  praefecit  sedi  Episcopal!  Clocherensi,  ab  Ard- 
macha  regni  Metropoli  baud  multum  distant!:  et  apud  eum  reliquit 
argenteum  quoddam  reliquiarium  Domnach-airgidh  vulgb  nuncu- 
patum;  quod  viro  Dei,  in  Hiberniam  venienti,  coelitus  missum  erat.’ 
— VII.  Vita  S.  Patncii,  Lib.  iii.  cap.  3,  Tr,  Th.  p.  149. 

“ This  passage  is  elsewhere  given  by  Colgan,  with  a slight 
change  of  words  in  the  translation. 

“ In  this  version,  which  is  unquestionably  prior  to  all  the  others, 
we  find  the  Domnach  distinguished  by  the  appellation  of  Airgid — 
an  addition  which  was  applicable  only  to  its  more  ancient  or  silver 
plated  case,  and  which  could  not  with  propriety  be  applied  to  its 
more  recent  covering,  which  in  its  original  state  had  the  appear- 
ance of  being  of  gold. 

“ On  these  evidences — and  more  might  probably  be  procured  if 
time  had  allowed — we  may,  I think,  with  tolerable  certainty,  rest 
the  following  conclusions: 

“ 1.  That  the  Domnach  is  the  identical  reliquary  given  by  St. 
Patrick  to  St.  Mac-Carthen. 

“2.  As  the  form  of  the  cumdach  indicates  that  it  was  intended 
to  receive  a book,  and  as  the  relics  are  all  attached  to  the  outer 
and  least  ancient  cover,  it  is  manifest  that  the  use  of  the  box  as 
a reliquary  was  not  its  original  intention.  The  natural  inference 
therefore  is,  that  it  contained  a manuscript  which  had  belonged  to 
'St.  Patrick;  and  as  a manuscript  copy  of  the  Gospels,  apparently 
of  that  early  age,  is  found  within  it,  there  is  every  reason  to  be- 
lieve it  to  be  that  identical  one  for  which  the  box  was  originally 
made,  and  which  the  Irish  apostle  probably  brought  with  him  on 
his  mission  into  this  country.  It  is  indeed,  not  merely  possible, 
but  even  probable,  that  the  existence  of  this  manuscript  was  un- 
known to  the  Monkish  biographers  of  St.  Patrick  and  St.  Mac- 
Carthen,  who  speak  of  the  box  as  a scrinium  or  reliquary  only. 
The  outer  cover  was  evidently  not  made  to  open;  and  some,  at 
least,  of  the  relics  attached  to  it  were  not  introduced  into  Ireland 
before  the  twelfth  century.  It  will  be  remembered  also  that  no 
superstition  was  and  is  more  common  in  connexion  with  the  an- 
cient cumdachs  than  the  dread  of  their  being  opened. 

“ These  conclusions  will,  I think,  be  strengthened  considerably 
by  the  facts,  that  the  word  Domnach,  as  applied  either  to  a 
church,  as  usual,  or  to  a reliquary,  as  in  this  instance,  is  only  to 
be  found  in  our  histories  in  connexion  with  St.  Patrick’s  time;  and, 


NOTES 


493 


that  in  the  latter  sense — its  application  to  a reliquary — it  only  once 
occurs  in  all  our  ancient  authorities,  namely,  in  the  single  reference 
to  the  gift  to  St.  Mac-Carthen;  no  other  reliquary  in  Ireland, 
as  far  as  can  be  ascertained,  having  ever  been  known  by  that  ap- 
pellation. And  it  should  also  be  observed,  that  all  the  ancient 
reliques  preserved  in  Ireland,  whether  bells,  books,  croziers,  or 
other  remains,  have  invariably,  and  without  any  single  exception, 
been  preserved  and  venerated  only  as  appertaining  to  the  original 
founders  of  the  churches  to  which  they  belonged.” 

There  is  very  little  to  be  added,  except  that  the  Donagh  was 
purchased  for  a few  pounds  from  the  old  woman  who  owned  it, 
by  Mr.  George  Smith,  of  the  house  of  Hodges  and  Smith,  of  Col- 
lege Green,  Dublin,  who  very  soon  sold  it  for  a large  sum  to  the 
Honourable  Mr.  Westenra,  in  whose  possession  I presume  it  now  is. 

7 We  assure  John  Bull,  on  the  authority  of  Phil  Purcel  himself, 
that  this  is  a fact. 

8 That  is,  at  the  outside. 

9 I subjoin  from  Townsend’s  Survey  of  the  County  of  Cork  a 
short  but  authentic  account  of  this  most  extraordinary  character: 
— “James  Sullivan  was  a native  of  the  county  of  Cork,  and  an 
awkward  ignorant  rustic  of  the  lowest  class,  generally  known  by 
the  appellation  of  the  Whisperer,  and  his  profession  was  horse- 
breaking.  The  credulity  of  the  vulgar  bestowed  that  epithet  upon 
him,  from  an  opinion  that  he  communicated  his  wishes  to  the 
animal  by  means  of  a whisper;  and  the  singularity  of  his  method 
gave  some  colour  to  the  superstitious  belief.  As  far  as  the 
sphere  of  his  control  extended,  the  boast  of  Veni,  Vidi,  Vici,  was 
more  justly  claimed  by  James  Sullivan,  than  by  Caesar,  or  even 
Bonaparte  himself.  How  his  art  was  acquired,  or  in  what  it  con- 
sisted, is  likely  to  remain  for  ever  unknown,  as  he  has  lately  left 
the  world  without  divulging  it.  His  son,  who  follows  the  same 
occupation,  possesses  but  a small  portion  of  the  art,  having  either 
never  learned  its  true  secret,  or  being  incapable  of  putting  it  in 
practice.  The  wonder  of  his  skill  consisted  in  the  short  time  req- 
uisite to  accomplish  his  design,  which  was  performed  in  private, 
and  without  any  apparent  means  of  coercion.  Every  description 
of  horse,  or  even  mule,  whether  previously  broke,  or  unhandled, 
whatever  their  peculiar  vices  or  iU  habits  might  have  been,  sub- 
mitted, without  show  of  resistance,  to  the  magical  influence  of 
his  art,  and,  in  the  short  space  of  half  an  hour,  became  gentle 
and  tractable.  The  effect,  though  instantaneously  produced,  was 
generally  durable.  Though  more  submissive  to  him  than  to  others. 


494 


IRELAND 


yet  they  seemed  to  have  acquired  a docility  unknown  before. 
When  sent  for  to  tame  a vicious  horse,  he  directed  the  stable  in 
which  he  and  the  object  of  his  experiment  were  placed,  to  be 
shut,  with  orders  not  to  open  the  door  until  a signal  given.  After 
a tete-d-tHe  between  him  and  the  horse  for  about  half  an  hour, 
during  which  little  or  no  bustle  was  heard,  the  signal  was  made; 
and  upon  opening  the  door,  the  horse  was  seen  lying  down,  and 
the  man  by  his  side,  playing  familiarly  with  him,  like  a child  with 
a puppy  dog.  From  that  time  he  was  found  perfectly  willing  to 
submit  to  discipline,  however  repugnant  to  his  nature  before. 
Some  saw  his  skill  tried  on  a horse,  which  could  never  be  brought 
to  stand  for  a smith  to  shoe  him.  The  day  after  Sullivan’s  half- 
hour  lecture,  I w'ent,  not  without  some  incredulity,  to  the  smith’s 
shop,  with  many  other  curious  spectators,  w'here  we  were  eye- 
witnesses of  the  complete  success  of  his  art.  This,  too,  had  been 
a troop-horse;  and  it  was  supposed,  not  without  reason,  that  after 
regimental  discipline  had  failed,  no  other  would  be  found  availing. 
I observed  that  the  animal  seemed  afraid,  whenever  Sullivan 
cither  spoke  or  looked  at  him.  How  that  extraordinary  ascend- 
ancy could  have  been  obtained,  it  is  difficult  to  conjecture.  In 
common  cases,  this  mysterious  preparation  was  unnecessary.  He 
seemed  to  possess  an  instinctive  power  of  inspiring  awe,  the  re- 
sult, perhaps,  of  natural  intrepidity,  in  which,  I believe,  a great 
part  of  his  art  consisted;  though  the  circumstance  of  the  Ute-d- 
tHe  shows,  that,  upon  particular  occasions,  something  more  must 
have  been  added  to  it.  A faculty  like  this  would,  in  other  hands, 
have  made  a fortune,  and  great  offers  have  been  made  to  him  for 
the  exercise  of  his  art  abroad;  but  hunting,  and  attachment  to 
his  native  soil,  were  his  ruling  passions.  He  lived  at  home,  in 
the  style  most  agreeable  to  his  disposition,  and  nothing  could  in- 
duce him  to  quit  Dunhallow  and  the  fox-hounds.” 

10  My  sorrow  on  you  for  a pig. 

11  Silence,  pig ! Silence,  you  vagabond. 

12  Gentleman. 

13  Behave  yourself,  pig — behave,  I say. 

14  Be  quiet,  now,  you  wicked  pig. 

15  Ironically — a take  in. 

16  This  is  pronounced  as  in  the  first  syllable  of  “ Langolee,” — 
not  like  the  Scotch  “ lang.” 

17  Model. 

Alanna  dhas — my  pretty  child. 

19  A kiss  of  fondness. 

20  A kind  of  indirect  relationship. 


NOTES 


495' 


21  Shrovetide. 

22  This  is  a kind  of  hyperbole  for  selling  a great  quantity. 

23  This  word  is  used  in  I reland  sometimes  in  a good  and  some- 
times in  a bad  sense.  For  instance,  the  peasantry  will  often  say 
in  allusion  to  some  individual  who  may  happen  to  be  talked  of, 
“ Hut ! he’s  a dirty  bodagh;  ” but  again,  you  may  hear  them  use 
it  in  a sense  directly  the  reverse  of  this;  for  instance,  “He’s  a 
very  dacent  man,  and  looks  the  bodagh  entirely.”  As  to  the  “ Half 
Sir,”  he  stands  about  half-way  between  the  bodagh  and  the  gen- 
tleman. Bodagh — signifying  churl — was  applied  originally  as  a 
term  of  reproach  to  the  English  settlers. 

24  The  caul  is  a thin  membrane,  about  the  consistence  of  very 
fine  silk,  which  sometimes  covers  the  head  of  a new-born  infant 
like  a cap.  It  is  always  the  omen  of  great  good  fortune  to  the  in- 
fant and  parents;  and  in  Ireland,  when  any  one  has  unexpectedly 
fallen  into  the  receipt  of  property,  or  any  other  temporal  good,  it  is 
customary  to  say,  “ such  a person  was  born  with  a ‘ lucky  caul  ’ 
on  his  head.” 

Why  these  are  considered  lucky,  it  would  be  a very  difficult 
matter  to  ascertain.  Several  instances  of  good  fortune,  happening 
to  such  as  were  born  with  them,  might  by  their  coincidences,  form 
a basis  for  the  superstition;  just  as  the  fact  of  three  men  during 
one  severe  winter  having  been  found  drowned,  each  with  two 
shirts  on,  generated  an  opinion  which  has  now  become  fixed  and 
general  in  that  parish,  that  it  is  unlucky  to  wear  two  shirts  at 
once.  We  are  not  certain  whether  the  caul  is  in  general  the  per- 
quisite of  the  midwife — sometimes  we  believe  it  is;  at  all  events, 
her  integrity  occasionally  yields  to  the  desire  of  possessing  it.  In 
many  cases  she  conceals  its  existence,  in  order  that  she  may  se- 
cretly dispose  of  it  to  good  advantage,  which  she  frequently  does; 
for  it  is  considered  to  be  the  herald  of  good  fortune  to  those  who 
can  get  it  into  their  possession.  Now,  let  not  our  English  neigh- 
bours smile  at  us  for  those  things  until  they  wash  their  own 
hands  clear  of  such  practices.  At  this  day  a caul  will  bring  a 
good  price  in  the  most  civilised  city  in  the  world — to  wit,  the 
good  city  of  London — the  British  metropolis.  Nay,  to  such 
lengths  has  the  mania  for  cauls  been  carried  there,  that  they  have 
been  actually  advertised  for  in  the  Times  newspaper. 

25  This  doctrine  of  fatalism  is  very  prevalent  among  the  lower 
orders  in  Ireland. 

26  Never  suffered  by  the  exciseman. 

27  Gits — the  smallest  possible  quantities. 

28  The  light  of  my  heart. 


496 


IRELAND 


29  Sweet  mother! 

30  To  put  over — the  corpse  of  a friend.  That  is  to  be  drunk  at 
the  wake  and  funeral. 

31  If  the  reader  remember  the  advertisement  in  the  Hedge 
School,  he  may  also  recollect  that  the  Hedge  masters  were  often 
employed  as  land-surveyors. 

32  Forsooth. 

33  Literally,  red  water. 

34  This  was,  and  in  remote  parts  of  the  country  still  is,  one  of 
the  strongest  instances  of  belief  in  the  power  of  the  Fairies.  The 
injury,  which,  if  not  counteracted  by  a charm  from  the  lips  of  a 
“ Fairy-man,”  or  “ Fairy-woman,”  was  uniformly  inflicted  on  the 
animal  by  what  was  termed  an  elf-stone — which  was  nothing  more 
nor  less  than  a piece  of  sharp  flint,  from  three  to  four  or  five 
ounces  in  weight.  The  cow  was  supposed  to  be  struck  upon  the 
loin  with  it  by  these  mischievous  little  beings,  and  the  nature  of 
the  wound  was  indeed  said  to  be  very  peculiar — that  is,  it  cut  the 
midriff  without  making  any  visible  or  palpable  wound  on  the  out- 
ward skin.  All  animals  dying  of  this  complaint,  were  supposed 
to  be  carried  to  the  good  people,  and  there  are  many  in  the  coun- 
try who  would  not  believe  that  the  dead  carcase  of  the  cow  was 
that  of  the  real  one  at  all,  but  an  old  log  or  block  of  wood  made 
to  resemble  it.  All  such  frauds,  however,  and  deceptions  were 
inexplicable  to  every  one,  but  such  as  happened  to  possess  a four- 
leafed  shamrock,  and  this  enabled  its  possessor  to  see  the  block  or 
log  in  its  real  shape,  although  to  others  it  appeared  to  be  the 
real  carease. 

35  A cow  without  horns. 

36  Short  visit. 

3T  Dhonan,  a diminutive  delicate  little  thing. 

38  An  old-fashioned  Irish  gown. 

39  A little  boy. 

40  Of  the  origin  of  this  singular  superstition  I can  find  no  ac- 
count whatsoever;  it  is  conceived,  however,  in  a mild,  sweet,  and 
hospitable  spirit.  The  visits  of  these  migratory  little  creatures, 
which  may  be  termed  domestic  grasshoppers,  are  very  capricious 
and  uncertain,  as  are  their  departures;  and  it  is,  I should  think, 
for  this  reason  that  they  are  believed  to  be  cognizant  of  the  on- 
goings of  human  life.  We  can  easily  suppose,  for  instance,  that 
the  coincidence  of  their  disappearance  from  a family,  and  the 
occurrence  of  a death  in  that  family,  frequently  multiplied  as 
such  coincidences  must  be  in  the  country  at  large,  might  occa- 
sion the  people,  who  are  naturally  credulous,  to  associate  the  one 


NOTES 


497 


event  with  the  other;  and  on  that  slight  basis  erect  the  general 
superstition.  Crickets,  too,  when  chirruping,  have  a habit  of  sud- 
denly ceasing,  so  that  when  any  particularly  interesting  conversa- 
tion happens  to  go  on  about  the  rustic  hearth,  this  stopping  of 
their  little  chaunt  looks  so  like  listening,  that  it  is  scarcely  to  be 
wondered  at  that  the  country  folks  think  they  understand  every 
word  that  is  spoken.  They  are  thought,  also,  to  foresee  both 
good  and  evil,  and  are  considered  vindictive,  but  yet  capable  of 
being  conciliated  by  fair  words  and  kindness.  They  are  also  very 
destructive  among  wearing-apparel,  which  they  frequently  nibble 
into  holes;  and  this  is  always  looked  upon  as  a piece  of  revenge, 
occasioned  by  some  disrespectful  language  used  towards  them,  or 
some  neglect  of  their  little  wants.  This  note  was  necessary  in 
order  to  render  the  conduct  and  language  of  Mary  Sullivan  per- 
fectly intelligible. 

41  This  short  form  is  supposed  to  be  a safeguard  against  the 
Fairies.  The  particular  day  must  be  always  named. 

42  Track,  foot-mark,  put  for  life. 

43  It  is  generally  supposed  by  the  people,  that  persons  who  have 
entered  into  a compact  with  Satan  can  raise  the  wind  by  calling 
him  up,  and  that  it  cannot  be  laid  unless  by  the  death  of  a black 
cock,  a black  dog,  or  an  unchristened  child. 

44  As  the  reader  may  be  disposed  to  consider  the  nature  of  the 
priest’s  death  an  unjustifiable  stretch  of  fiction,  I have  only  to 
say  in  reply,  that  it  is  no  fiction  at  all.  It  is  not,  I believe,  more 
than  forty,  or  perhaps  fifty  years,  since  a priest  committed  his 
body  to  the  flames  for  the  purpose  of  saving  his  soul  by  an  in- 
crematory sacrifice.  The  object  of  the  suicide  being  founded  on 
the  superstitious  belief,  that  a priest  guilty  of  great  crimes  pos- 
sesses the  privilege  of  securing  salvation  by  self-sacrifice.  We 
have  heard  two  or  three  legends  among  the  people  in  which  this 
principle  predominated.  The  outline  of  one  of  these,  called  “ The 
Young  Priest  and  Brian  Braar,”  was  as  follows; — 

A young  priest  on  his  way  to  the  College  of  Valladolid,  in 
Spain,  was  benighted;  but  found  a lodging  in  a small  inn  on  the 
road  side.  Here  he  was  tempted  by  a young  maiden  of  great 
beauty,  who,  in  the  moment  of  his  weakness,  extorted  from  him 
a bond  signed  with  his  blood,  binding  himself  to  her  for  ever. 
She  turned  out  to  be  an  evil  spirit:  and  the  young  priest  pro- 
ceeded to  Valladolid  with  a heavy  heart,  confessed  his  crime  to 
the  Superior,  who  sent  him  to  the  Pope,  who  sent  him  to  a Friar 
in  the  County  of  Armagh,  called  Brian  Braar,  who  sent  him  to 
the  devil.  The  devil,  on  the  strength  of  Brian  Braar’s  letter,  gave 


498 


IRELAND 


him  a warm  reception,  held  a cabinet  council  immediately,  and 
laid  the  despatch  before  his  colleagues,  who  agreed  that  the  claim- 
ant should  get  back  his  bond  from  the  brimstone  lady  who  in- 
veigled him.  She,  however,  obstinately  refused  to  surrender  it, 
and  stood  upon  her  bond,  until  threatened  with  being  thrown 
three  times  into  Brian  Braar’s  furnace.  This  tamed  her:  the 
man  got  his  bond,  and  returned  to  Brian  Braar  on  earth.  Now 
Brian  Braar  had  for  three  years  past  abandoned  God,  and  taken 
to  the  study  of  magic  with  the  devil;  a circumstance  which  ac- 
counts for  his  influence  below.  The  young  priest,  having  pos- 
sessed himself  of  his  bond,  went  to  Lough  Derg  to  wash  away  his 
sins;  and  Brian  Braar,  having  also  become  penitent,  the  two 
worthies  accompanied  each  other  to  the  lake.  On  entering  the 
boat,  however,  to  cross  over  to  the  island,  such  a storm  arose  as 
drove  them  back.  Brian  assured  his  companion  that  he  himself 
was  the  cause  of  it. 

“ There  is  now,”  said  he,  “ but  one  more  chance  for  me;  and 
we  must  have  recourse  to  it.” 

He  then  returned  homewards,  and  both  had  reached  a hill-side 
near  Brian’s  house,  when  the  latter  desired  the  young  priest  to 
remain  there  a few  minutes,  and  he  would  return  to  him;  which 
he  did  with  a hatchet  in  his  hand. 

“Now,”  said  he,  “you  must  cut  me  into  four  quarters,  and 
mince  my  body  into  small  bits,  then  cast  them  into  the  air,  and 
let  them  go  with  the  wind.” 

The  priest,  after  much  entreaty,  complied  with  his  wishes,  and 
returned  to  Lough  Derg,  where  he  afterwards  lived  twelve  years 
upon  one  meal  of  bread  and  water  per  diem.  Having  thus  puri- 
fied himself,  he  returned  home;  but  on  passing  the  hill  where  he 
had  minced  the  Friar,  he  was  astonished  to  see  the  same  man 
celebrating  mass,  attended  by  a very  penitential-looking  congrega- 
tion of  spirits. 

“ Ah,”  said  Brian  Braar,  when  mass  was  over,  “ you  are  now  a 
happy  man.  With  regard  to  my  state,  for  the  voluntary  sacrifice 
1 have  made  of  myself,  I am  to  he  saved;  but  I must  remain  on 
this  mountain  until  the  Day  of  Judgment.”  So  saying  he  disap- 
peared. 

There  is  little  to  be  said  about  the  superstition  of  the  Lianhan 
Shee,  except  that  it  existed  as  we  have  drawn  it,  and  that  it  is 
now  fading  fast  away.  There  is  also  something  appropriate  in 
associating  the  heroine  of  this  little  story  with  the  being  called 
the  Lianhan  Shee,  because,  setting  the  superstition  aside,  any 
female  who  fell  into  her  crime  was  called  Lianhan  Shee.  Lianhan 


NOTES 


499 


Shee  an  Sogarth  signifies  a priest’s  paramour,  or,  as  the  country 
people  say,  “ Miss.”  Both  terms  have  now  nearly  become  obsolete. 

45  Altogether — completely. 

40  Alluding  to  the  Colossus  of  Rhodes. 

47  The  Muddha  A rran  is  literally  “ the  bread  stick,”  a term  in 
opposition  to  the  scowdher.  It  is  a forked  stick  with  three  legs, 
that  stands  opposite  the  fire,  and  supports  the  cake,  which  is 
placed  on  the  edge  until  it  is  gradually  baked.  The  scowdher  is, 
for  the  most  part,  made  in  cases  of  hurry. 

48  This,  about  thirty  years  ago,  was  usual  at  weddings  and  other 
feasts,  where  everything  went  upon  a large  scale. 

49  This  is  a passage  which  I fear  few  general  readers  will  un- 
derstand without  explanation;  the  meaning  is  this: — When  a young 
man  first  enters  Maynooth  College  he  devotes  himself  for  the 
space  of  eight  days  to  fasting  and  prayer,  separating  himself  as 
much  as  possible  from  all  society.  He  must  review  his  whole  life, 
and  ascertain  if  he  can,  whether  he  has  ever  left  any  sin  of  im- 
portance unconfessed,  either  knowingly  or  by  an  omission  that  was 
culpably  negligent.  After  this  examination,  which  must  be  both 
severe  and  strict,  he  makes  what  is  called  a General  Confession; 
that  is,  he  confesses  all  the  sins  he  ever  committed  as  far  back 
and  as  accurately  as  he  can  recollect  them.  This  being  over,  he 
enters  upon  his  allotted  duties  as  a student,  and  in  good  sooth 
feels  himself  in  admirable  trim  for  “ a set-in  at  the  King’s  Mut- 
ton.” 

^0  Sthilk  is  made  by  bruising  a quantity  of  boiled  potatoes  and 
beans  together.  The  potatoes,  however,  having  first  been  reduced 
to  a pulpy  state,  the  beans  are  but  partially  broken.  It  is  then 
put  into  a dish,  and  a pound  of  butter  or  rendered  lard  thrust 
into  the  middle  of  it. 

51  The  form  of  the  Service  to  the  Virgin,  from  which  most  of 
the  above  expressions  are  taken,  is  certainly  replete  with  beauty 
and  poetry. 


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